


Run and Find Out

by malevolentmango



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Julia Burnsides Lives, M/M, Mystery, aka the grand relics heist, flirting via notes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-02-24 04:42:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13206219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malevolentmango/pseuds/malevolentmango
Summary: It all starts with a note.Well, that's not technically accurate. For his team of detectives, it starts with a trio of burning wagons on a lonely stretch of road just outside Phandalin, dying flames flickering dully as dawn breaks over a new day. For the world, it will start with the news of the disappearance of the Phoenix Fire Gauntlet, an ancient relic stolen from the wreckage before all traces of the culprit burned away.But for Kravitz, it starts with a note.





	1. The Hunter with Eyeballs of Flame

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to my lovely betas: [Kipp](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinyKipp), [Myles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/transdavenport), and [Tess](http://archiveofourown.org/users/stargirls) for their helpful suggestions and endless enthusiasm! <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has been a long time coming, and so I also want to thank everyone in the TAZ Fic Writers discord who has been encouraging me for weeks while I posted snippets but no actual chapters. Y'all are world class.

It all starts with a note. 

 

Well, that's not technically accurate. For his team of detectives, it starts with a trio of burning wagons on a lonely stretch of road just outside Phandalin, dying flames flickering dully as dawn breaks over a new day. For the world, it will start with the news of the disappearance of the Phoenix Fire Gauntlet, an ancient relic stolen from the wreckage before all traces of the culprit burned away.

 

But for Kravitz, it starts with a note. 

 

It's the first thing he notices at the crime scene, after the rather obvious columns of flame and the surprising fact that all three drivers are unharmed. A plank of wood, likely pulled off one of the wagons, jammed vertically into the ground a short distance away, deliberately placed just out of range of the flames. The scrap of parchment attached to it looks like it was torn from a larger notebook page; the remnants of a few letters are barely visible along the frayed edges. Whoever wrote it seems to have been in a hurry - the words are almost illegible, hastily-scrawled in smeared ink.

 

_ Flame on! _

_ \- Mongoose _

 

Such a tactless response to wanton destruction. Kravitz bites back a grin, reaching up to cover his mouth with his hand. Laughing at a crime scene is generally frowned upon.

 

Lup, of course, has no such reservations.

 

“Really? ‘Flame on?’” Her sharp bark of a laugh echoes off the nearby treeline, and several of the militia’s first responders turn to stare at her. “This dude needs better references.”

 

“Or perhaps a better hobby?”

 

“Yeah, that too.”

 

Kravitz places the note in his evidence bag of holding and approaches the wagons as the fantasy fire brigade finishes putting out the flames. Barry is already there, examining the charred remains and occasionally jotting things down in the notebook he carries with him everywhere. “Had a roommate once who hated when I left my notes scattered around on random pieces of paper,” he’d once told Kravitz over coffee in the break room. “Now she sends me one of these every Candlenights.”

 

“Not much to go on, boss,” he says now, glancing up at Kravitz from where he’s crouched next to the middle wagon. “Whoever torched these did a damn good job, really knows their evocation. Might even be better than the grandmaster of fire herself.”

 

“I’m a little rusty, babe, but not  _ that _ rusty,” Lup says, putting her hands on her hips in a show of indignance.

 

“You haven’t set fire to anything in our apartment in nearly two months. I’m starting to think you don’t even  _ like _ fire anymore.”

 

“Well that’s just ridiculous, Barold. I was only trying to give you a break after last time.”

 

“My underwear drawer thanks you.”

 

Kravitz rolls his eyes, but he can’t quite keep the grin off his face. Captain Raven had questioned the wisdom of hiring Barry and Lup as a couple, concerned about distractions in the field. But they’ve more than proven themselves in the year Kravitz had been working with them, and they fit in well with the rest of the team. Besides, it's nice to have a little distraction once in awhile. Barry and Lup are as a refreshing as they are talented.

 

“Take some samples of the wood to send to the lab anyway,” Kravitz says. “With any luck, Maureen and Lucas will be able to pull together an arcana profile, see if our arsonist isn’t in the system already.”

 

“On it!”

 

Kravitz glances around, making sure the rest of his team isn’t goofing off quite as much as Barry and Lup are. He needn’t have worried. Killian and Hurley are busy questioning the wagon drivers, and Roswell is standing guard at the blockade they’d set up further down the road to keep passersby - or, as now seems to be the case, reporters - from tampering with the crime scene. All three of them had been transplants from other Faerunian militias, recruited based on their outstanding performance to join Captain Raven’s task force. 

 

Hurley once called it “a great honor.” Killian routinely calls it “a pain in my ass,” although she always says it with a smile, so Kravitz is mostly sure that she's kidding. 

 

The task force is something of a special case, as militias go. Technically, they're an extension of the Neverwinter militia, but in reality they handle the cases that require... special attention. Serial killers crossing borders, powerful magic users exploiting the local populace, or in this case, the theft of a highly valuable ancient relic belonging to the Neverwinter Historical Society. Basically, they solve the cases that no one militia could handle on its own. 

 

Which makes them, unfortunately, a little bit famous. 

 

Kravitz sighs and trudges up the short incline towards Roswell, who's going to need all the help they can get. Really, how had the reporters found out about this so quickly? The task force had only arrived on the scene half an hour ago. This relic delivery (or lack thereof) is clearly more important than he first assumed. 

 

There are about seven or eight reporters lined up on the other side of the barricade, along with a few civilians making an early morning trip to Phandalin, and as Kravitz approaches he hears Roswell echoing his own thoughts. 

 

“Now I don't know how y'all found out about this,” they say, “but you know the rules, I can't let anyone nearer to an active crime scene than this. Don't you gimme that look, Rex Reed, I done lost track how many times I told you that before.”

 

“Come on, Roswell, I got fantasy magazines to sell! Surely you can give me  _ something,” _ Reed says, holding out a small, enchanted stone, ready to record whatever Roswell might say next. 

 

“The people need to know what happened! Everyone’s fearing for their belongings, their lives! Will the residents of Phandalin ever be safe again?” says the skinniest human Kravitz has ever seen, who goes by the unfortunate name of Jeff Jeffins.

 

“Aw can it, Jeffins, no one reads your ‘Report’ anyway,” says a rather short, surly-looking half-elf who Kravitz recognizes as Steve Johnson from Fantasy Times. 

 

There are a few chuckles from the other reporters, but Jeffins remains undeterred. “The people deserve to  _ know.” _

 

“Gentlemen, you know the drill,” Kravitz says as he steps up next to Roswell, as usual feeling very small next to their large, imposing frame. The crowd of reporters collectively perks up at the sight of him in a rather disturbing fashion. “A statement will be made once we've finished our initial investigation, and not a minute sooner.”

 

The questions start coming in rapid-fire.

 

“Kravitz! Can you at least confirm that the Phoenix Fire Gauntlet is missing?”

 

“Is there any indication of who was behind this attack?”

 

Jeffins grips the barricade, white-knuckled, and leans in closer to Kravitz. “Will any of us ever be safe again?”

 

Kravitz has never been more grateful for the existence of Jeff Jeffins in his life.

 

“What I  _ can _ confirm is that all of the wagon drivers are safe,” he says, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the rabble. “They were not harmed in any way, and really, that's the most important thing to take away from today.”

 

“Doesn't sell any fantasy magazines though,” Reed mutters. 

 

Kravitz ignores him. “You are, of course, welcome to stand here and wait for me to  _ not  _ change my mind. But I'm afraid I'll have to leave you here with Roswell, who unfortunately didn't have a chance to grab breakfast on the way here.” He fights the smile that's trying to take over his face. “And they get a bit  _ testy _ when they're hungry.”

 

Roswell offers the reporters a slightly manic grin that Kravitz knows is just for show (mostly). They all fall into a satisfying silence as he walks back to the crime scene. Hurley and Killian seem to have finished taking the drivers’ statements, and they wave him over when they see him approaching. 

 

“Any leads on the suspect?” he asks.

 

Hurley shakes her head. “Not much to go on. Only the front driver even saw anything - said they were wearing some kind of animal mask he didn't recognize - but she thinks he was male. And then they were all knocked out while the actual theft happened.”

 

“Sleep spell?”

 

“Seems like it,” Hurley says with a shrug. “No way to confirm.”

 

“And what is this thing, this gauntlet? It's valuable, I assume?”

 

“Priceless, apparently,” Killian says, only a little sarcastically. “From the way they talked about it, you'd think it was a deity they worshipped and not a hunk of cool-looking ancient metal.”

 

Kravitz snorts. “I suppose we'll have to do some research then.” Both girls groan, and Kravitz smiles. “You two can do the legwork. The Historical Society will have more information on this thing, and they'll be wanting an update as soon as possible anyway.”

 

“Yes, sir!” Hurley says, offering him a cheeky salute. There's nothing Hurley hates more than being stuck at her desk all day, and Killian is much the same.

 

“Let's go help Lup and Barry finish up and then head back to Neverwinter.” He observes the wreckage with a sigh. “The Captain's not going to like this at all.”

 

* * *

 

Captain Raven does not, in fact, like this. At all. 

 

She rubs her temples as Kravitz finishes explaining what they found at the scene and what they plan to do to begin their investigation. There's silence for a moment, broken only by a single heavy sigh. Kravitz shifts awkwardly, his fingers clenching where he has them clasped behind his back. For as long as he's known the Captain, she has always been the kind of stalwart figure who refuses to show weakness. It's not that she's cold to her team by any means - in fact, Kravitz would sometimes prefer a bit  _ less _ interest in his personal life. But there's a reason she's the youngest person in history to become a captain in the Neverwinter militia. 

 

She's one of the strongest people Kravitz knows. It's disconcerting, to say the least, to see her react like this to their new case.

 

But she recovers almost immediately, straightening in her chair, her shoulders back and her posture impeccable, and that's the Captain that Kravitz knows. A woman seemingly crafted from iron rather than bone, with the steely gaze to match. 

 

“This case is now our top priority,” she says, meeting Kravitz’s eyes steadily. She tilts her head towards the window that looks out from her office to the common area where the detectives work. “Tell the team to hand off all their active cases to the militia proper. They can be available for consultation during the transition, but I want everyone’s focus on this.”

 

Kravitz is momentarily stunned. The task force has been known to request aid from the primary militia corps in the past on cases that required an extra set of hands or two, or to pass on cases that turned out to have a heavy focus in Neverwinter. But this? Sending down  _ all _ of their active cases? 

 

This is unprecedented.

 

“I’ll give the order, ma’am, but I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what their reaction will be.”

 

She huffs. “Yes, I can imagine.”

 

“Barry and Lup in particular are  _ very _ close to closing on that necromancy ring…”

 

Captain Raven seems to consider it, before nodding. “Yes, alright. They can keep that one, but they better wrap it up quickly or I’ll have to reconsider.”

 

“Understood. But if I may ask… why all this attention for a robbery and arson case?”

 

The Captain sighs. “I have a strong suspicion that it’s not nearly that simple, Kravitz,” she says, leaning back in her chair. She taps her fingers against the armrest in a rhythmic pattern as she considers her words. “This artifact, this Gauntlet… it’s part of a set of ancient, highly sought-after relics.”

 

“So this may only be the  _ first _ robbery.” The Captain nods. “How many are there?”

 

“Seven, total. All of them incredibly valuable and, according to some, powerful.”

 

She pulls open a drawer in her desk and produces a glossy pamphlet that she hands to Kravitz.  _ ‘Another Grand Relic is coming to Neverwinter!’ _ it proclaims.  _ ‘See the Phoenix Fire Gauntlet in person at the Neverwinter Historical Society!’ _ Below the headline is a list of times for showings and a crudely-sketched map directing people to the Historical Society’s location.

 

At Kravitz’s questioning glance, a reluctant grin crosses the Captain’s face. “Istus is quite fascinated by the legend. I had intended to take her to see the gauntlet when it arrived - the Society already has the Oculus, so it would be the first time in living memory that two of the relics were ever in the same place. Of course, she’s convinced that there’s some truth to the myths, but…” She rolls her eyes fondly. “At any rate, I doubt this will be the first relic to go missing, especially with another one so close by. If we can figure out who’s behind this first theft…”

 

“Then we can prevent the others. I’ll make sure the team gives it their full attention, ma’am.”

 

She smiles and nods in a clear dismissal. “Thank you, Kravitz.”

 

Kravitz turns to leave, taking a deep breath as he opens the door back into the common room. There’s no way this news is going to go over well, but he has his orders.

 

* * *

 

In a drab, generic office building on the opposite side of Neverwinter, Taako drops the Phoenix Fire Gauntlet unceremoniously onto a desk. Lucretia looks up from the fantasy moleskine that she's furiously scribbling in to offer him a warm smile. 

 

“Well done,” she says, nodding an acknowledgement at Magnus and Merle, who are standing on either side of him. “I trust no one saw you?”

 

Taako scoffs. “Who do you think I am?”

 

Lucretia stares at him pointedly. 

 

“Okay, no, that's fair, I guess.”

 

“No one saw us,” Magnus confirms. 

 

Merle chimes in with: “And we didn't hurt no one! We made sure those drivers were way out of the way before we torched those babies!”

 

_ “Phrasing,  _ Merle,” Taako says tiredly, as if it’s something he finds himself saying on a near-daily basis.

 

Lucretia's eyes widen almost comically. 

 

“I'm sorry, you… you  _ torched _ the wagons?”

 

“No evidence,” Magnus says, at the same time that Taako says, “Creative problem solving.” Magnus offers his fist to Taako, who pounds it daintily. 

 

Lucretia sighs, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose. “I suppose it could have been worse, but… let’s try to avoid excessive property damage in the future, okay?” She stares at the three of them until Magnus and Merle each nod; Taako tilts his head to the side, but agrees to nothing. “And you're sure the drivers…?”

 

“Only saw the masks before we put ‘em to sleep,” Merle says, holding his owl mask up to his face and making a horribly inaccurate hooting sound. 

 

Lucretia nods. She picks the Gauntlet up off her desk and examines it, and her lips quirk up at one side in a tiny grin.

 

“One down, boys.”


	2. Keep the Measure

The Neverwinter Historical Society is, perhaps fittingly, located in the oldest building in the city. It’s survived at least seven wars, twice as many uprisings, and one particularly violent Candlenights celebration. It went through several other iterations before it became a museum - a house, a tavern, a bank, and for a very short and confusing time, a strip club. 

 

Killian learns all of this rather reluctantly from the Society’s owner and head artificer, Leon, who whispers the last part behind his hand to her and Hurley as he gives them a tour of the facility. 

 

“After that  _ sordid _ period,” Leon continues, leading them past a display of centuries-old weapons that Killian stares at longingly, “the building operated as a shop and restaurant for many years before my great-great grandmother purchased it. She was the one who renamed it the Historical Society and filled it with an extensive array of artifacts from her personal collection.”

 

“And did that collection include the Oculus?” Hurley asks, trying to get the conversation back on track. From the strained tone of her voice, she's enjoying their little history lesson about as much as Killian is.

 

Leon nods, seemingly delighted that she asked. “Yes, in fact, it did! Although it wasn't moved to the Society’s holdings until after her death - she enjoyed having it around the house, apparently.” He takes them around the weapons collection to an unmarked door in the back of the building. “Normally, it would be on display in the main hall, as per her request. But in light of recent events, we've moved it to a… more discrete location.”

 

“No kidding,” Killian says under her breath. Hurley nudges her, grinning. Leon apparently notices nothing, too busy fiddling with the complicated locking mechanism on the door. 

 

“Here we go!” he says as the lock clicks open. Killian follows him into the room and is surprised by the state of it. Whereas the rest of the Society is neat and meticulously organized, even down to the labels on every solitary piece of some old, broken pot, this room is… well, a mess. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line two of the long, narrow walls, unbroken except by a few windows, with either end of the room taken up by larger pieces. Killian immediately becomes more aware of her limbs and where she stands in relation to the shelves, because they look like one accidental bump might send the whole thing tumbling down. She shares a wide-eyed glance with Hurley, who’s still standing in the doorway as if she’s afraid to enter the room at all.

 

Leon runs a nervous hand through his hair. “Yeah, it’s… not great in here, I know. Fact is, the Society just has too much  _ stuff _ and not enough building to put it in. We were hoping the proceeds from ticket sales to see the Phoenix Fire Gauntlet would help in that regard, but… well.” He shrugs a bit helplessly.

 

“Well, that’s what we’re here for!” Hurley says optimistically. She inches a bit further into the room. “Where’s the Oculus now?”

 

“Just back here.” 

 

Leon leads them to the opposite corner of the room. Tucked up against the end of a shelf is a square glass case on a simple wooden pedestal, inside which rests the Oculus. Killian thinks it looks kind of plain, for all the trouble it’s causing - just an old monocle connected to a gold chain, perched in the center of a dark blue velvet pillow.

 

“Does anyone else have access to this room?” Killian says, instead of what she actually wants to say, which is, “Why does anyone care so much about half a pair of glasses?”

 

“Well, occasionally I’ll need help while we’re switching out exhibits, but I’m the only one who has a key.” Leon taps a finger against his chin, thinking. “No, there’s no one else who’d be able to get in. Although that new security person, she asked to take a look as well.”

 

Killian exchanges a glance with Hurley. “Security person?” Hurley asks.

 

“Yes, some of our board members thought it would be… prudent to see what measures we can take to make this building a bit more secure. It was never meant to function as a museum, after all.”

 

“Right,” Killian says, taking a last long look at the Oculus and the layout of the room. “We’ll need to talk to her as well then.”

 

“Of course! I believe she’s still here, in fact.”

 

Leon ushers them out of the room and locks the door securely behind them, double and then triple-checking the lock. There are a few people milling about the main exhibit hall; Killian takes note of them all by habit. As she's doing so, she thinks she sees a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye. When she turns to look, there's no one there. 

 

The side room Leon takes them to, which is dedicated to an exhibit on enchanted shields, is empty. Leon looks around, then shrugs. 

 

“Maybe she left already. I'll give you her--”

 

“Whatcha need, boss?” A voice chimes in from behind them, startling Leon so much that he stumbles trying to turn around too quickly. Killian spins around to find a dragonborn - a small dragonborn, in fact, smaller than she's ever seen - wearing a black leather jacket and a grin so wide it shows off her pointed teeth. Her golden eyes are glinting with mirth as they all react to her little trick, and when they land on Killian, she winks.

 

It's a shame, Killian thinks, that all of these people are going to have to die so they can never tell anyone how hard she's blushing.

 

Leon, having recovered slightly, lets out the long-suffering sigh of a man who has dealt with this kind of thing too often in too short a time. “Detectives, this is Carey Fangbattle, our new security officer. Carey, these are detectives from the Neverwinter militia.”

 

“Name's Hurley, nice to meet you,” says her partner, seemingly unphased by Carey's entrance. 

 

There's a slightly too-long silence in which everyone turns to look at Killian before she remembers how greetings are supposed to work. 

 

“Killian!” she blurts out, as if she's just now figured out what her name is. Which is, sadly, not too far from the truth. 

 

“Pleasure,” Carey says, and really, if this dragonborn doesn't stop smiling at her and saying  _ words  _ in that low, gruff voice of hers, Killian is going to spontaneously combust. And that would not look good on her next performance review.

 

Leon clears his throat. “They uh... would like to talk to you about the--”

 

“Right yeah, of course. I just had a quick question about this room…”

 

As Leon and Carey talk, Hurley leans in to whisper in her ear. “Hey Killian? It's me, Hurley, your good buddy and partner on this case? Yeah: get your shit together, you useless lesbian.”

 

Killian snorts, still blushing slightly. “You're one to talk,” she mumbles. 

 

Hurley opens her mouth to reply, but as Leon makes his way out of the room with a wave and Carey turns her attention back to them, she settles for mouthing  _ I'm watching you _ instead. 

 

“So,” Carey says, “you've got questions for me?”

 

Hurley nods. “You're upgrading the defenses here, yeah? How long have you been in the security business?”

 

“A few years now. Gosh, almost four actually.” Carey shakes her head. “Weird. But yeah, I specialize in non-magical theft prevention. And boy, does this place need it.”

 

“That's a strange speciality,” Killian says. “Most places like this have arcane wards and traps and things like that, don't they?”

 

“You're a sharp one.” Carey winks at her again. Killian does  _ not  _ blush this time, absolutely not, not even close. “Yeah, they've got those things too. But sometimes you just gotta bust in a window and snatch something, ya know? No magic needed. That's the kind of thing I try to prevent.”

 

“Speaking from experience?” Killian asks.

 

Carey smiles again, but this time it's a little strained. “Everyone's got a past, don't they?”

 

“An interesting one, from the sounds of it.”

 

“Maybe you'd like to hear more about it?” Carey eyes Killian up and down in a deliberate motion. “Say, over dinner?”

 

“Alright, just a couple more questions,” Hurley says before Killian can respond. Which is great, because Killian’s brain is a big blank slate of “Uhhhhhh?” with no actual response on the way. “You asked Leon to see the room where the Oculus is kept?”

 

“Well, it's kinda helpful to know what I'm working with, so yeah. The heights of the windows, its location in the room, all that good stuff.”

 

“Of course. And have you worked on projects like this before?” 

 

“I usually go a bit smaller scale.” She pauses to chuckle at her own joke, gesturing to herself, and Killian finds herself laughing softly too. “But there's been a few big ones. The Silverymoon Museum was probably my largest before this.”

 

Hurley nods and writes down the name. Killian finally remembers how to speak like a normal person.

 

“Where would I--we find you?” Or not. “Er, if we needed to ask more questions?”

 

Carey rattles off an address a few streets over, smirking all the while. “But I can give you my Farspeech frequency, if you want it,” she adds, her eyes never leaving Killian’s. 

 

Hurley snorts. “That won't be necessary. Thank you for your time.”

 

“Happy to be of service.”

 

Killian can feel Carey's eyes on her as Hurley all but drags her from the room. It's only Hurley’s grip on her arm that prevents her from traipsing right back in and asking if she can have that frequency after all. 

 

As soon as they're back on the street and out of earshot, Hurley says, “Look at you, getting all flustered over a  _ criminal.  _ How scandalous!”

 

“Former criminal.”

 

Hurley laughs, but it's tinged with something almost bitter. “Aren't they all?”

 

Killian doesn't answer immediately. They weave through pedestrians on the narrow sidewalk, the silence filled by anonymous voices and the clatter of wagons rolling down the street beside them. A few blocks ahead of them, the towering building that houses the Neverwinter militia looms, taller than all the others that surround it. A proud beacon of strength.

 

Finally, Killian says, “I guess asking her out would be a pretty bad idea, huh?”

 

“Nah.” Hurley’s gaze is fixed somewhere in the distance, as if Killian isn’t the only person she’s speaking to. “It’s only a bad idea if you make it one.”

 

* * *

 

There’s something about museums at night, Taako thinks, slipping in through the gap formed by his Hole Thrower. He waits for Merle and Davenport to follow him in before removing it from the Historical Society’s window - why do they never check the windows? - and looks around the small side room they’ve landed in. It’s almost like Blinking into another plane of existence, with how different this place is between day and night. No people, no lights, no sound but the old, creaking floors, just a bunch of… shields? What a weird museum.

 

Merle and Davenport exchange a glance and move as one toward the door, checking with perfect synchronicity to make sure they really are alone. Taako thinks it’s fucking eerie when they do that and wishes they wouldn’t, but he follows them anyway, because they’ve got a monocle to yoink.

 

Lucretia’s expecting them to find some increased security after their successful snatching of the Gauntlet, which is why they’ve got to move fast to get to the Oculus too. So far, their recon on the space proves accurate, but there’s no telling what they might find in the room where the Oculus is actually held.

 

“Looks clear,” Merle whispers, and Davenport nods a confirmation from his side.

 

Taako strides out between them into the main hall, ready to get moving. The two old guys scramble to follow him, peeking around corners and displays while Taako forges on ahead.

 

“This is a great way to get caught,” Davenport mutters.

 

“You said it was clear, homie. Usually you get mad at me for  _ not _ listening to you.”

 

Davenport shakes his head. “Honestly, how have you survived as a thief this long?”

 

“Well you know me, Dav,” Taako says, tossing a smug grin over his shoulder. “It’s ’cause I’m amazing.”

 

Merle snorts and ignores them both, instead reaching into his bag to pull out his Nitpicker. All their intel says the Oculus is being kept in the storage room just ahead, and if the complicated mechanism on the door is anything to go by, then they’re definitely in the right place.

 

“Now, Ernest,” Merle says as the garden gnome begins to animate, “I know you’ve got a lot to say, but if you could say it  _ quietly _ we’d sure appreciate it.”

 

“Oh sure, first you stuff me in that stinky old bag for  _ days,  _ and then you want me to do you a favor. Or should I say, another favor to go along with the one I’m already doin’ you?” Ernest steps up to the lock and begins arranging his tools. “You all look  _ ridiculous,  _ by the way.”

 

Davenport adjusts the hummingbird mask on his face self-consciously. Taako shrugs. “Gotta have a disguise, my dude.”

 

“Yeah, but you coulda picked  _ anything.  _ You know, like something cooler than… whatever that thing is on your face.”

 

Taako crosses his arms. “It’s a mongoose.”

 

“A what-goose?”

 

Merle sighs. “Ernest, could you just…”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m workin’ on it!”

 

There’s exactly five seconds of silence, during which Davenport checks his pocket watch to see how they’re doing on time, before Ernest speaks up again.

 

“And another thing!” he says, maneuvering his lockpicks with deft fingers. “What the hell was that last job? I didn’t know you was gettin’ into  _ arson _ now. Ya could’ve burnt me up!”

 

“Wait, what?” Davenport says, turning to stare incredulously at Merle. “What exactly did you three  _ do?” _

 

Merle chuckles nervously. “Well, uh… no evidence, you know?”

 

Taako rolls his eyes as Davenport and Merle begin whisper-arguing. Ernest looks exceedingly pleased with himself, and happily finishes picking the lock with no further commentary, whistling quietly as he does so.

 

“All done! You boys sure picked a tough one this time, but it was no match for ol’ Ernest!”

 

Merle looks all too happy to be interrupted. “Great! Back in the bag you go then.”

 

Ernest makes an offended noise. “That’s how it always is with you, Merle! I pick these locks and then it’s ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am, back in the stink bag,’ it’s so--mmph!”

 

Merle stuffs Ernest into his bag, muffling the sounds of his continued rant until he finally falls silent.

 

“Let’s get this over with,” Davenport says, and Taako nods.

 

The room they enter is practically overflowing with useless old junk, and Taako’s eyes skim over it all blankly in search of the Oculus. Most of it is worthless to them, and the stuff that isn't is so damn hard to fence that making any money off it wouldn’t be worth the trouble. Either way, it’s all just an obstacle standing between him and the only important item in this decrepit building.

 

And there it is. Tucked behind one of the massive shelves at the other end of the room, in a display case like the ones they’d passed in the main hall. The Oculus, in all of its… non-glory.

 

“Seriously, this is it?” Taako says, gesturing at the simple monocle. “Where’s the flash? The pizazz? Where’s the  _ glitter?” _

 

“I don’t think monocles usually come with glitter…” Merle says, tilting his head.

 

Davenport hums, gazing at the Oculus appreciatively. “I think it’s rather nice. Elegant.”

 

“Well, neither of you have an ounce of taste, so that explains that.” Taako flicks the umbrella hanging from his wrist up into his hand and points it at the case. “Relic number two, comin’ right up.”

 

* * *

 

Being woken up in the middle of the night by a voice shouting from his Stone of Farspeech isn't exactly a new experience for Kravitz, but it never fails to startle him. Especially when, in this case, it's a voice he's unfamiliar with.

 

“Um, hello?” says the strange voice in his bedroom at two in the morning. “Lieutenant Kravitz? I think this is the right frequency… right, yes, so it would appear that I'm being robbed.”

 

“What?” Kravitz replies intelligently, muffled by his pillow and still groggy from sleep. 

 

“Yeah, those new security spells we've been working on? Well, they're not all in place yet, but they've still picked up movement in the main hall…”

 

And suddenly Kravitz is wide awake, because he does recognize that voice after all, from the quick conversation they'd had when Hurley and Killian passed along his frequency: Leon, from the Neverwinter Historical Society. 

 

Which means that someone is currently trying to steal the Oculus. 

 

He's dressed and out the door in less than a minute, wearing the wrinkled clothes he'd tossed on the floor when he went to bed just a few hours ago, and on his way there he makes several other Farspeech calls. His team is getting a rude awakening tonight, but they'll just have to deal with it; the ramifications of losing the Oculus would be even worse than running around Neverwinter in the dead of night. 

 

Leon is waiting for him at the front entrance, and Lup and Barry round the opposite corner a few moments later, also wearing yesterday's clothes and looking like they haven't even slept at all. Kravitz has the horrifying thought that he might've interrupted something far worse than their sleep, and then resolutely shoves that thought away. The three of them begin formulating a plan of attack, and within five minutes the rest of the team has arrived as well. 

 

Kravitz sends Barry and Lup to guard the windows looking into the storage room containing the Oculus, as they discussed, in case anyone tries to leave that way. Then he quietly instructs Leon to unlock the door, and the rest of them make their way inside. Killian and Hurley take point, since the room is familiar to them, and lead the rest of the team toward the storage room after a quick scan of the main hall reveals nothing. 

 

The door is wide open. 

 

Kravitz gestures at Roswell and Killian to remain in the hall to catch anyone who runs out. Hurley meets his gaze and nods, and they step up to either side of the door. Kravitz counts down from three on his fingers, and then they burst as one into the room, weapons drawn. 

 

It seems they're just in time. 

 

“Well, this is almost too easy,” Kravitz says.

 

The man in front of the display case freezes, his hands raised up on either side of it as if he'd just been about to lift it off the stand. He's tall and lithe, with an air about him that screams  _ chill, _ and he's dressed in a sheer dark purple top and a knee-length black skirt. And a pair of the tallest boots Kravitz has ever seen. It's certainly a striking look.

 

Not that Kravitz is admiring their prime suspect in what may just be the highest-profile theft case any of them has ever worked. Totally not doing that.

 

When the man glances over his shoulder at them, Kravitz sees that he's wearing a mask: some kind of animal with a pointed nose, small rounded ears, and rough-looking fur, likely the same one he'd worn while attacking the wagons.

 

After they take him in, Kravitz plans to ask him just what the hell that animal even is. 

 

“Looks like you got me, my dude,” the thief says, shrugging. His voice is distinctive, a lilting drawl that pitches high on all but a few words. He tilts his head slightly, and despite the mask Kravitz can tell that he’s being given a thorough once-over. “Gotta say, I wasn’t looking forward to being handcuffed, but for you? I’ll make an exception.”

 

“That’s great,” Hurley says, taking a few steps closer to him, “because you don’t get any say in the matter.”

 

The thief starts to say, “Well, that’s--” before he’s cut off by a loud crash as the window next to him shatters. Whatever he was going to say is replaced with a loud “Fuck!” and the room is suddenly filled with the sounds of a struggle and shouting outside. Before anyone in the room can react, the window Kravitz is standing under explodes as well, and Barry comes crashing into him, sending them both to the floor. 

 

Kravitz groans, and as Hurley turns immediately to help them, he catches a glimpse of the thief throwing his leg over the window to climb through. He turns back for just a moment, offers Kravitz a mock salute, and says, “See ya, handsome!” before hauling himself up and out of sight.

 

By the time Killian and Roswell have burst into the room and helped get Kravitz and Barry back on their feet, the thief is long gone. He leans through the broken window next to him, carefully avoiding all the shards of glass, to look for Lup. She’s leaning against the wall of the building opposite, clutching her side, but otherwise looks no worse for wear. Her thumbs-up when he calls her name confirms it.

 

“Well… that could’ve gone better,” Barry says, sounding distinctly out of breath.

 

Kravitz huffs. “What the hell happened out there?”

 

“Whoever that guy is, he’s not working solo. We got jumped by three more people wearing masks. Lup hurt one of ‘em pretty bad and scared him off, but the other two, well…” Barry gestures vaguely. “Here I am.”

 

“Of course,” Kravitz mutters. “Finding all these relics would take an entire operation. It must be one of the thieves’ guilds at work.”

 

“We’ll just have to figure out which one,” Roswell says.

 

Killian nods. “And in the meantime, we still have the Oculus. We’ll just have to move it somewhere… wait.”

 

“Don’t say that. Don’t say it like that--”

 

“This doesn’t look right,” Killian says over the sound of Kravitz’s rising panic.

 

Barry goes over to Killian, standing next to the display case, and squints at the Oculus as he reaches for his wand. His hand comes up wand-less, and Roswell clears their throat pointedly before picking up the wand from the floor near the broken window. Barry goes a bit red in the face and retrieves it from them with a quiet  _ thank you, _ and then returns to his task. The display case floats up and away, landing gently on the floor, and Barry goes to pick up the Oculus with his other hand.

 

His hand goes right through it. The illusion flickers and fades, leaving in its place a note resting in the slight indent where the Oculus had once been.

 

_ I’ve got my eye on you! _

_ Just the one though. Get it, because it’s a fucking monocle? _

_ \- Mongoose _

 

* * *

 

Facing Leon at the entrance of the Historical Society had been bad enough, Kravitz thinks, as he walks into the task force office of the Neverwinter militia the following morning. Having to break the news to him that he was now missing two of the Grand Relics is not an experience he ever wants to repeat. The sheer disappointment on the man’s face, like he was going to break down right then and there…

 

The look on Captain Raven’s, however, is worse.

 

There’s a glint in her eyes that clearly says “We’ll talk later,” but at the moment, Kravitz is able to slip by her to his desk, clutching his coffee like a lifeline.

 

It looks exactly as he left it yesterday: stacks of case files to be taken down to the other militia detectives, evidence still needing to be turned in, sketches and notes about the relics and the Historical Society, and a few scattered spell components. All the same… with one notable exception.

 

In the center of his desk, tucked halfway under a drawing of the Oculus, is a torn-off sheet of parchment. The sort that’s beginning to look awfully, annoyingly familiar.

 

_ Hey handsome, _

_ Last night was a lot of fun, huh? We should do it again sometime. _

_ An evening with someone as gorgeous as you couldn’t possibly be wasted. _

_ What do you say: you, me, a bottle of Pinot? Let me know what you think.  _

_ I wasn’t kidding when I said I’d make an exception for you. _

_ \- T. _


	3. Turn for Turn

A single building has never filled Roswell with as much internal dread as the Neverwinter Central Library. They stand at the base of the steps leading up to its grand front entrance waiting for Killian to arrive, knowing that once they’re inside, they won’t be leaving it again anytime soon.

 

The old clock tower at City Hall chimes the hour. To them, it sounds more like a death knell.

 

They spot Killian crossing the street and go to meet her. From the look on her face, she’s just as excited about their little research project as Roswell is, which is to say, not excited in the slightest.

 

Roswell prefers taking action, giving chase, hunting for clues. This dusty old library offers nothing so exciting. But they go where Kravitz tells them to go, and in this particular case, he'd been weirdly adamant on examining the scene at the Historical Society himself, and Hurley had jumped at the chance to tag along.

 

And with Barry and Lup still finishing up their necromancer case, that leaves the research into just what exactly these relics are to Roswell and Killian.

 

“Morning,” Roswell says, “ready to suffer?”

 

Killian laughs. “Starting the day off right. I like it.”

 

They make their way inside - Roswell tries not to think of the door closing behind them as the lid sealing their coffin shut - and ask the librarian at the desk where they might find the information they need. The directions she gives them lead to a quiet corner section on the third floor that’s devoid of people. There's an entire shelf of books devoted to the Grand Relics. Roswell sighs and begins pulling them all down, and Killian helps them carry the stacks to a nearby table.

 

“Well,” Killian says, surveying the array of dusty old books with a wince, “let's get this over with.”

 

They don't say much after that except to compare notes, and that's something Roswell has always appreciated about Killian: she says what needs to be said without all the fluff and doesn't waste time with small talk. It makes this whole thing a little more bearable.

 

Roswell skims over the parts about the Gauntlet and the Oculus, since those are already long gone anyway, and focuses on the ones they might still be able to save. As far as they can tell, this thieves’ guild has their work cut out for them if they're planning to collect the whole set.

 

The Gaia Sash is locked up tight in the Goldcliff Trust. The Temporal Chalice’s location is uncertain, but was last thought to be hidden (not very well, if it's in this book, Roswell thinks) in a vault under a temple belonging to some goddess Roswell has never heard of. The Bulwark Staff is on display - not in a museum, but smack dab in the center of a dwarven settlement in the Frost Hills, encased in pure mithral and near-impossible to retrieve because of it.

 

And the Philosopher's Stone, easily the most famous of the bunch, is in the private collection of the Sterling family, and thus probably better guarded than any other item in Faerun could possibly be. Doubly so, now that word about the stolen relics has begun to spread.

 

“This whole thing reads like a two-bit fantasy novel,” Roswell says, shutting a book titled _Marvelous Mysteries of Faerun_ with probably more force than necessary.

 

Killian snorts. “You don’t like fantasy novels?”

 

“I prefer westerns.”

 

“‘Course you do.” Killian flips around the book she’d been reading - _Artificers’ Delight: A History of Magical Artifacts_ \- and points to a section halfway down one of the pages. “You seen much about this one? The Animus Bell?”

 

“Not really. A few mentions, usually just the name and the fact that it’s been missing for centuries.”

 

“Yeah, that’s what I’m getting too. But there’s something else…”

 

Killian reaches for another book from one of her stacks titled _The Fearsome Relics_ and opens it to a bookmarked page, turning it around as well so Roswell can read it. On one page are drawings of each of the Grand Relics, arranged in a circle around a white orb. On the other, in cramped, shaky handwriting, is a paragraph scrawled in the center of the page.

 

“‘Seven in number, seven in name,’” Roswell reads. “‘The seven we shall split in twain, we for whom unity has brought naught but folly. Heed us, for our deeds past, and mark which words should pass unsaid. What is brought together only sacrifice can part.’ Now _this_ is some fantasy bullshit.”

 

“But it’s fantasy bullshit that this guild might believe in,” Killian says, turning the book back towards herself. She looks up suddenly, her eyes flying to a row of shelves behind Roswell, but when they turn to see what caught her attention, they find nothing but the books themselves.

 

“Did you see something?” Roswell asks, glancing between Killian and the bookshelf.

 

“I-I thought I did, but…” She frowns. “Think we've been stuck in here too long. All the dust is starting to get to me.” She gestures to the book again. “Anyway, this whole thing is just one long conspiracy theory. Talks about the great power of the relics, and there's a ton of references to ‘the light that burns creation,’ whatever that means.”

 

“The relics don't _do_ anything though. Aren't they only valuable because of how old they are?”

 

“Probably. But who knows what these people think. They're stealing them either way, you know?”

 

“True.” Roswell sighs. “Don't think we're gettin’ much more than that outta these books.”

 

Killian adds _The Fearsome Relics_ to her pile and pulls a new book - _Faerun’s Greatest Mysteries_ \- towards her. “But you know Kravitz is going to ask.”

 

Roswell follows suit, groaning, and resigns themselves to being trapped in this place even longer. “Also true.”

 

* * *

 

There's a building in downtown Neverwinter that no one owns.

 

To someone in real estate, this would probably be shocking. It's not in the best neighborhood, to be fair, but still: it's a prime location. Any business looking to set up shop in the city would count themselves lucky to snatch up a place like this.

 

But no one does. And anyone who asks about it? Well, they stop asking soon enough.

 

Merle waltzes into the building that no one owns, whistling a cheery tune, as if it's his vacation home. And he's dressed like it too: a lurid, flowery shirt over khaki shorts. Davenport had given him a once-over as he left and rolled his eyes, but he was fighting a grin as he did so.

 

Merle's not fooled. He knows he's a 10.

 

There are two wooden chests in the entryway, creaking and stained with age and rot (not that he would ever tell Magnus as much), and Merle carefully places all of his weapons and items inside it before locking it and slipping the key into his pocket. The other chest is missing its key, which means the person he's meeting is already here.

 

As it turns out, there _is_ honor among thieves. Not very much of it, but it's there, and it's never more apparent than when Merle has to visit Parley.

 

The building no one owns doesn't have an official name, but as often happens with these kinds of things, it has simply become known over the years by what it’s used for. Countless negotiations between the many thieves’ guilds of Neverwinter have taken place in this building, stretching back centuries. No one's really sure who started the tradition, least of all Merle, but he's found himself in here more times than he can count. It used to freak him out, the idea of locking away every useful thing he has and walking into the next room unarmed. But it doesn't anymore.

 

There's only one rule that the thieves of Neverwinter hold sacred: You don't fuck with Parley. Anyone who does doesn't stay a thief - or alive - for very long.

 

Merle wanders into the only other room in the building, still whistling, although his tune fades out as he takes in the scene that awaits him.

 

As usual, the room is well-lit but slightly drafty, and the only furniture in it is a large, ornate oval-shaped table with a number of chairs around it - perfect for a rousing debate between all the members of a couple of guilds, if need be. And sitting at one end of the table is a man Merle has never seen before in his life.

 

Now, Merle's been around the block a few times - he's a little bit infamous, if he does say so himself, although Davenport often encourages him to _stop_ saying so - and he knows the thieves in this town. Just about all of them, he likes to think, although he misses out on some of the newcomers sometimes. He and Davenport have been in this game longer than some of their rival guilds have even existed, and more than that, Merle is the liaison. There's a reason Lucretia prefers to send him to Parley when issues come up, and that's because more often than not, he can convince people to give the IPRE what they want.

 

Which is why the man at the table, who's now standing to greet him, gives Merle pause. Because he can tell from a glance that this is no upstart young thief looking to make a quick gold piece, and if he's not that, then Merle should know him.

 

The man looks like he took a wrong turn somewhere on his way to the financial district; he's wearing a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and dark slacks. And a tie! Who wears a tie to Parley, of all places? With his hair slicked back and an odious smile on his face, he resembles the kind of guy Merle used to pickpocket in his youth.

 

But there's something about him… some indefinable quality that sets Merle on edge, although no one would be able to tell from the calm tone of his voice when he speaks.

 

“Well, this is a surprise. Gotta say, I was expectin’ one of those thugs from the Hammerheads, come to complain about our territory again.”

 

The man chuckles, but there's no humor in his eyes.

 

“I’ll have to watch out for them, I suppose,” he says, and his voice is smooth and cold, like the flat of a knife. “We haven't met, obviously. My name is John, I'm… new in town? That's a good way of putting it.” He looks Merle up and down, and his gaze is nowhere near as friendly as Davenport’s had been. “And you… are Merle, yes? The IPRE’s great negotiator.”

 

“That's right,” Merle says, “though I dunno about ‘great.’ I just do what I can!”

 

“And so modest, too.” John sits back down, waving Merle over to the table. “Join me, please. If I understand how this works, neither of us may leave until both sides have been heard, yes?”

 

“Them’s the rules, sure. You seem to know a lot about Parley for someone who's new in town.”

 

John smiles; it's unsettling, as if he's not quite sure how smiles work. “When you have such important goals to accomplish as I do, Merle, it's beneficial to find the shortest path to those goals.”

 

Merle considers him for a moment. He's got a hunch what this is about - had it, in fact, the moment he saw this guy - but he asks anyway.

 

“And what are those goals?”

 

“Straight to business, I see. A man after my own heart.” John rests his hands on the table in front of him, tapping his fingers as he thinks. “I'll tell you what, Merle, because I'm quite curious about your goals as well: let's make this a bit of a game. A question for a question. How does that sound?”

 

“Sounds like more fun than this usually is, so why not?”

 

“Wonderful. I'll answer yours first, if that's the one you'd like to stick with?” When Merle nods, John continues. “Well, I think you may already have an idea what my goals are, Merle. You and your crew have some items that I want. The Gauntlet and the Oculus.”

 

Underneath his bright, summery shirt, Merle's heart clenches in a wintry cold. He attempts a casual response, though he's not sure how successful he is. “Heard some rumors ‘bout those things. Dunno what makes you think we've got ‘em though.”

 

John laughs again, that brutal cold thing that does nothing to lighten the mood. “Come now, Merle, let's not lie to each other. It cheapens the game! That was some good work you did out there in Phandalin. I must say, I'm impressed.”

 

“Well… thanks, I guess,” Merle says hesitantly. “You got a question for me?”

 

“Yes, right.” John steeples his fingers and points them at Merle. “My question is: how much?”

 

“How much… what?”

 

John sighs. “The relics, Merle, the two that you have. How much are they going to cost me? How valuable are they to you?”

 

In that instant, Merle realizes two things. One: that John is so assured of his finances that he can offer to _buy_ the relics without even hearing a price first. And two: that this man will do just about anything for these relics, and if he doesn't say the right things, he might not be leaving Parley alive tonight, locked chests be damned.

 

So of course, what he says is, “Oh.”

 

John stares at him expectantly. Merle blinks. John frowns.

 

“That much, is it?” John says, that strange smile crossing his face again. “It's okay, Merle, I can take it.”

 

“Uh, well,” Merle says intelligently, “the thing is, John, I'm not really in-the-know as far as sellin’ ‘em goes, so I can't give you an answer.”

 

John doesn't seem surprised by this. “Hmm, no, I suppose you wouldn't know. That sort of decision would be up to Lucretia, wouldn't it? I guess I wasted a question!”

 

How the _hell_ does he know that name, Merle thinks, something very much like panic hovering at the back of his mind. Keep it together, come on, think…

 

“Well, we all got bosses, don't we?” he manages to say, with a shaky laugh.

 

“That we do,” John says, and maybe it's the anxiety creeping up on him, but Merle thinks he almost sounds… sad. “If that's the case, then I won't keep you any longer, Merle. But if you would find out what that number is for me, I'd appreciate it.”

 

“Sure thing. Can't make any promises as to when, though.”

 

“Soon, I hope. There are other relics to be obtained, after all.”

 

Merle is quiet for a moment. Then, before he can stop himself, he says, “Can't make any promises about that, either.”

 

An annoyed look flashes across John's face before it returns to that eerie placid calmness once more and he announces an end to their meeting.

 

This time, when Merle leaves the building with no name, he does something he hasn't done since his very first trip there: he looks over his shoulder, half-wondering if he'll see that smiling face right before it buries a knife in his back.

 

* * *

 

Kravitz should be surprised when he sees what’s on his desk after a long and ultimately fruitless investigation of the Historical Society and the alley behind it.

 

He _should_ be surprised. But he’s not.

 

Kravitz glances around the office. He and Hurley are the first ones back - Killian and Roswell are still at the library (probably reluctantly), and Barry and Lup are staking out the necromancers’ lair. Captain Raven is gone too, tied up in meetings all morning.

 

In short, no one's going to have any idea how this happened again.

 

He sits down at his desk and picks up the note.

 

_Dear Detective Hottie,_

_Okay, maybe I came on a little strong last time. But I mean, can you blame a guy for knowing what he wants?_

_You know that saying, how criminals always return to the scene of the crime? Well, you searched pretty thoroughly this morning - you look just as unfairly good in daylight, by the way - but you didn't find me. If you had, I might have just let you take me… in._

_Maybe, after this is all over… maybe I will. No promises though. And until then, I guess I'm gonna have to keep making your life difficult._

_\- T._

 

By the time he's done reading, Kravitz is fighting a smile. If nothing else, the guy's got nerve. But what does he hope to gain by doing this? He has to know that he risks capture with each note, if not from leaving them (and how is he doing _that,_ even?) then from any clues he might leave in his words. He's already let slip that his name starts with “T” when he's signed the notes to Kravitz that way instead of with his “Mongoose” moniker.

 

Or is that his goal? To draw attention onto himself and away from his cohorts, now that the task force knows he's not working alone?

 

Kravitz lingers on the second to last line. _After this is all over._ What happens then? The phrasing of it sounds somehow… uncertain. Bleak. Like the Mongoose isn't sure what the end of his crime spree will bring.

 

Maybe Kravitz is just trying too hard to understand him. Maybe he shouldn't follow this line of thinking any further; maybe he should keep plugging away at this case the same way he would any other.

 

He considers that for a moment or two. And then he picks up his pen and his own spare bit of paper, and he begins to write. His note is shorter and noticeably lacking in the level of flirtation, but it serves its purpose.

 

Writing the note isn’t the problem; getting it to him, however, may yet prove to be.

 

Kravitz waves goodbye to Hurley on his way out the door, chuckling at her shout of “Haven’t you done enough investigating for one day?” He doesn’t think he’ll be getting a lot of investigating done, where he’s going. Although he may get an earful about working himself too hard.

 

The merchant quarter of Neverwinter isn’t a very far walk from the militia headquarters. Kravitz has always liked this part of the city. Everyone here, whether resident or visitor, moves with a purpose: finding the best deal, crafting the perfect weapon, selling the most product. Every inch of the place is defined by the passion of the people who live and work there, down to the old cobblestone streets that were built by some of the very first families who moved in centuries ago.

 

He lingers in front of a music shop - the old woman who owns it is incredibly kind, and never comments on how long he spends loitering in her store - but he forces himself on. It would be a shame to get distracted so close to his goal.

 

The door to the Hammer and Tongs is closed, but the hand-carved sign hanging in the window is flipped to _OPEN._ He knocks in the usual pattern - three sharp taps, a pause, and then two more - and counts to ten before opening the door. The interior looks almost exactly the same as it did the last time he was here: a large, open space, most of it devoted to the carpentry workshop that brings in more business than any other in the city. But a portion of the back corner serves as both front desk and lounge area, and that’s where he finds Julia.

 

“Kravitz! Hell, I haven’t seen you in so long I was starting to think you were dead!” she says as she comes over to give him a hug, which he gladly accepts.

 

“Somehow, I think being dead would make my job easier,” he says. “Less paperwork.”

 

Julia laughs, bright and airy, and totally at odds with the way she punches him in the arm. “Too morbid! You want some tea?”

 

“I’m afraid I’ll have to pass. I’m not exactly here for a chat.”

 

“Yeah, when are you ever?” She goes behind the counter and plucks a mug from the collection that she keeps in the center of the table there. There’s a still-steaming kettle there as well, and she fills Kravitz’s mug with it. “Two sugars, right?”

 

Kravitz smiles. “Yes, thank you.”

 

Julia prepares his tea and retrieves her own mug before coming to hand his over the counter. Neither of them comment on the two extra mugs on the table, or the chairs that are knocked askew.

 

“So,” she says as Kravitz takes a sip of his tea. It’s delicious, as always. “What’s on your mind this time, Mr. Detective?”

 

“I need to have a message delivered, and I’m hoping you might know the recipient.” Kravitz watches her face carefully for an sign of a change. “He goes by the name Mongoose.”

 

Not even a flinch. She takes a drink of her tea. “I’ve heard of him,” she says placidly.

 

“Have you perhaps heard of how to get a note to him?”

 

Julia sighs. “Kravitz…”

 

“This is the big one, Julia,” he says. There’s a touch of desperation in his voice that he can’t quite erase. “I can’t--Listen: I’m calling in that favor.”

 

She sets her mug down on the counter with a loud _thunk._ “You don’t know what you’re asking. It’d be better if you didn’t get involved.”

 

Kravitz smiles ruefully. “Bit late for that. It’s my job, after all.”

 

She eyes him for a long moment, silence settling over the workshop like so much sawdust. Then she says, “Helluva thing to waste that favor on, delivering a note.”

 

He pulls the folded note out of his pocket and slides it across the counter. It’s not sealed, but then he’s not particularly worried about Julia reading it. If his hunch about the identity of one of the Mongoose’s partners is correct, she’d likely hear the contents of it anyway.

 

“I’m thinking… well, hoping that it’ll be worth it. And for what it's worth, you have my word that I won't arrest him on first sight.”

 

Julia looks like there are several things she'd like to say and none of them complimentary, but all she does is pick up the note and place it carefully in her own pocket.

 

“I’ll make sure he gets it.”

 

Kravitz nods his appreciation. He takes another long drink of his tea before setting the mug back on the counter.

 

“I won’t take up anymore of your time. Thank you for the tea,” he says, already turning towards the door.

 

Julia waits until he’s on the threshold before she says, “Don’t be a stranger.” It’s the same thing she says every time he leaves the workshop, but something about it is off this time. As if maybe being a stranger might be better for him this time around.


	4. An Arrow Down the Path

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone on the TAZ Fic Writers Discord who's been so supportive of me and this fic! I love y'all. <3

The only thing Raven hates more than meetings is meetings where she doesn't have all the answers. She's had two of those today, and there's not going to be another one, if she has any say in the matter.

 

Which she does. Quite a lot of say, as it happens. 

 

It's late afternoon by the time she steps out of her office and surveys her task force, all hard at work at their desks. Kravitz is the first to notice her, and he straightens in his chair, awaiting her instructions. 

 

“Conference room,” she says. Her mouth twitches in amusement when Barry jumps in his seat. “Five minutes.”

 

Raven enters the conference room without waiting to see if any of them question her. Of course, they don't. They begin filing in almost immediately: Kravitz takes his usual seat at the front; Killian and Roswell drag their feet, looking dead tired; Lup grins over her shoulder at a red-faced Barry; and Hurley brings up the rear, muttering to herself, as if her mind is still on whatever task she left at her desk. 

 

She's grateful for each of them, in this moment, for their willingness and their lack of hesitation. But now is not the time for sentimentality.

 

Now is the time for action.

 

“Okay gang, we're officially in crisis mode. I got word this morning that stories about the stolen relics are going to be hitting the fantasy newspapers tomorrow, and there's no stopping them. That means more scrutiny on us, and more eyes on the relics that are still in play. It's time to be proactive. Barry, Lup, I know you two are close on that necromancer case. Frankly, the only reason I'm not taking you off it is because I have a feeling we're going to need a big win in the coming days. That's a lot of pressure on you.”

 

“We can handle it, Cap,” Lup says, and Barry nods firmly.

 

“Good. But every second you're not tailing those necromancers, I want you working on the relics.”

 

“Understood,” they say in perfect unison, and then turn to grin at each other. 

 

“Now, we may not have many leads from the crime scenes,” she continues, and Kravitz makes a quiet, disgruntled noise. “But where are we at with the arcana profiles?”

 

“I talked to Lucas about an hour ago,” Kravitz says, not sounding happy about it in the least. Raven resists the urge to smile. “We came up empty on the wood from the wagons, but he says the pillow from the display case looks promising. Said he'll pull an all-nighter if he has to.” Kravitz’s lips twitch. “Maureen didn't look happy about that.”

 

“Well, at least he's motivated,” Raven says, and Lup laughs. “In the meantime, we need to try a different approach. Killian, Roswell, based on your research, which relic do you think this guild will most likely target next?”

 

“The Sash or the Staff,” Killian says. “The Chalice and the Bell are MIA as far as we could tell, and of course the Sterlings have the Stone.”

 

Raven sighs. “Yes, and Sterling has been informed. Woe betide any thief who tries to get into  _ that _ place now.”

 

“I'm thinkin’ the Sash, ma’am,” Roswell says. “They clearly got ways of gettin’ through locked doors, but solid mithral? Reckon they might need more time to figure that one out.”

 

“An astute assumption. We'll start with the Sash then. Prepare for a trip to Goldcliff first thing tomorrow.”

 

There's a loud  _ smack, _ and all eyes in the room turn towards Hurley, who blushes furiously and lifts her hand up off the table in front of her. 

 

“Uh, sorry, my hand did a… thing…”

 

Killian rolls her eyes, but otherwise no one reacts, and they all turn their attention back to the front of the room. 

 

“I'll send word ahead to Captain Bane of the Goldcliff militia to let him know you're coming. Once you're there, you'll need to set up a detail around the Goldcliff Trust. See if you can't find out some more about the relics while you're there, as well.” When no one seems to have any objections to the idea, she adds, “Dismissed.”

 

They all file out of the room, talking quietly to each other about preparations for tomorrow, until Kravitz is the only one left. She waits for him to speak his mind.

 

“We won’t even know who we’re looking for,” he says, the words pulled from him with clear reluctance. Raven thinks it must weigh heavily on him, how little they have to go on. “If they’re in Goldcliff at all.”

 

She considers him for a moment. There’s a reason Kravitz is her lieutenant: he’s smart, makes good decisions under pressure, and above all, he’s not afraid to offer his opinions - always with respect, of course, but his ideas and criticisms are consistently both refreshing and welcome.

 

Raven makes it a point to offer him honesty in return.

 

“This is a show of strength more than anything, Kravitz,” she says. “A reassurance, if you will.” Finally, she gives into the urge to smile. “I’ve already requested that another team be sent to Mithral Hill to poke around the relic there as well, and to alert us if anything goes awry. I believe that Killian and Roswell have the right idea about Goldcliff, but even if they don’t, we will still accomplish our goal.”

 

Kravitz frowns, but he says, “Alright. I’ll make sure the team is prepared for… anything, really.”

 

“Thank you, Kravitz.”

 

Her lieutenant nods and heads out to the main office to join the rest of team.

 

Raven sighs. And then she squares her shoulders and follows suit, preparing herself for the days ahead.

 

* * *

 

Hurley walks confidently through the streets of Goldcliff, with nothing but the sound of her own feet pounding the pavement to interrupt her thoughts. It’s a quiet night, here in the awkward stretch of city between downtown proper, where the nightlife is defined by how loud your tavern can get, and the far less glamorous cliffside neighborhood she’s headed for, where the roar of the engines serves as a warning to anyone who gets too close. It’s easy to get lost here. The roads twist and turn, leading to unexpected dead ends, different parts going by different names depending on who you ask, and it only gets worse the closer you get to racer territory.

 

Luckily, Hurley doesn’t need to ask for directions. She knows these streets as well as she knows her martial arts - intimately, and without fear. 

 

There’s no clear line that shows when you’ve crossed into racer territory, but Hurley knows when she’s there. It comes in the form of a dull roar of engines, either on the track or in her blood, and the smell of arcane exhaust that clings to every surface. She never appreciates how deep the race runs in her veins until she returns to it after an extended stay in Neverwinter. 

 

There’s nowhere quite like Goldcliff. She always misses it more than she expects to.

 

Her destination is a relatively small garage (in comparison to ones like the Hammerheads’, anyway) in the center of the action, a stone’s throw from the wide, circular expanse of sand that the racers have jointly claimed as a practice track. It’s as dark inside as the night around her, but she knows there’s someone waiting for her in there.

 

Hurley’s heart races with anticipation. It’s been so  _ long _ this time…

 

She reaches into her back pocket for the key that she keeps there always, even when she’s in Neverwinter, and unlocks the door. As her eyes adjust to the absence of even a street light, she feels her way down the hall by memory. She’s about to call out a teasing “What’s a girl gotta do to get some light around here?” when a pair of arms circle her from behind, one hand covering her mouth and the other pulling her in by the waist.

 

She’s about a split second from flipping the body behind her over her shoulder onto the ground when she recognizes the silk-smooth voice whispering in her ear.

 

“Breaking and entering, detective? Pretty sure that’s a  _ crime.” _

 

Hurley turns so fast she almost sends them both toppling over, but it still feels like precious seconds too long before she’s pulling Sloane’s face down to meet hers and kissing her like she’s gone months without it. Which she  _ has. _

 

When they finally part, Hurley says breathlessly, “It doesn’t count as a B&E if I have a key.”

 

Sloane grins. “So no breaking, but maybe a little  _ entering, _ if I’m lucky?”

 

Hurley swats her arm playfully. “Only if you behave.”

 

“Ah, see, I’m not very good at that,” Sloane murmurs, drawing her in for another kiss. She trails her lips down to Hurley’s neck. “Perhaps I can tempt you with a bit of misbehavior instead?”

 

There’s very little time for talking after that. 

 

Much later, Hurley sits up against the headboard of Sloane’s bed, running her fingers through Sloane’s hair as Sloane curls up against her. She feels… settled, for the first time in a long time. Life with the task force never slows down, but she’ll take her moments where she can. And this moment right here? This is a pretty damn good one to hold on to.

 

“Missed you,” Sloane whispers, a confession sighed into bare skin. Hurley smiles.

 

“I missed you too, Blackbird.”

 

Sloane huffs. “Still not gonna forget about that one, huh?”

 

“Not a chance.”

 

It’s an old joke between them - the first time Hurley saw Sloane with her raven mask, she hadn’t recognized the type of bird it was, and so went with a more literal interpretation. Hurley was quickly corrected, but the name stuck around.

 

They lay there in content silence. Hurley breathes in the scent of her, clean and sweet but with an undertone of oil and dust; Sloane is living proof that you can never wash the race out completely, no matter how hard you try.

 

“When do you have to be back?” Sloane asks after a while, sounding reluctant. 

 

Hurley sighs, her fingers pausing in their tracks through Sloane’s hair. “They probably won’t miss me until the morning, but I should leave early.”

 

“They didn’t ask where you were going?”

 

“Nah, said I was visiting family.” Hurley chuckles. “Not exactly a lie, I suppose.”

 

Sloane looks up at her, her eyes impossibly soft, and smiles. Hurley treasures these looks for their rarity. It’s not often Sloane drops the rough-and-tumble racer persona, but Hurley has always been the exception.

 

“It’s too bad you can’t join me on the track tomorrow. How cool would that be? The Raven and the Ram, together again for a special reunion race?”

 

“Yeah, I wish,” Hurley says. She knows what the response to her next words will be before she even says them, but she tries anyway. “Actually… I wish you wouldn’t race tomorrow, either.”

 

Sloane laughs, carefree. “Come on, babe, you know I love you, but I’m not afraid of a few extra cops hanging around.”

 

“It’s not gonna be just a few extra cops! Sloane, they  _ know. _ Everything. They know exactly what time the race starts, where the start and finish is, where you’re setting up. They’ve never had this much information before.”

 

Sloane sits up at that, looking alarmed. “How did they find all that out?”

 

“I don’t know. But Captain Bane asked for the task force’s help tomorrow. I think he might be trying to bust the whole thing up once and for all.”

 

Sloane is quiet for a moment, thinking. But when she meets Hurley’s eyes, resolve practically pouring off of her, Hurley knows exactly what she’s going to say.

 

“I’m still gonna race.”

 

“Yeah. I know you are.” Hurley reaches up and tucks a strand of Sloane’s long, dark hair behind her ear. “Just… be careful.”

 

The way Sloane grins at that has Hurley immediately, intensely worried.

 

“I’ll be more than careful.” She’s climbing out of bed before Hurley can stop her, pulling her clothes from earlier back on.

 

“Hey--hey, get back here, Blackbird, I’m not done with you yet--”

 

“Back in two shakes, babe, I promise.” Sloane, now fully dressed, leans back over the bed to give Hurley a long, slow kiss. “Don’t go anywhere.”

 

Hurley rolls her eyes, a reluctant smile crossing her face as Sloane waves goodbye. She waits until she hears the front door close, then gets out of bed herself, tugging one of Sloane’s old t-shirts over her head. She might as well make them both a midnight snack while she waits.

 

* * *

 

Davenport’s hands clench around the steering wheel with the first resounding blow of the horn. He hasn't felt this rush, this anxious pulse in the pit of his stomach, in several years, but he welcomes it like an old friend.

 

He doesn't need to be here. 

 

His purpose has already been fulfilled - find the old racers who still remember him, the ones who tore into him on the track and made him work for every single win, and then bought him a beer afterward. Buy them a few rounds for old time’s sake, find out when the next race is, and make sure Captain Bane finds out about it. 

 

He doesn't need to be here, in a borrowed wagon, listening to the horns count down to the start of the race. And somehow, that makes it all the more thrilling. 

 

Davenport knows that his team can handle the heist without him - he could be napping on his sofa back in Neverwinter, waiting for Merle to stomp through his door and tell him how brilliant and useful he was, for all his presence in Goldcliff matters today. 

 

But the dust and the sand and the blinding light, the smell of sweat and blood and oil, the rumble of the engines that sync to his heartbeat, all of it: it calls to him. He'd forgotten what it felt like. 

 

He pulls the hummingbird mask down over his face and counts it down.

 

Three, two, one.

 

His foot slams down on the gas the second the final horn blows. Davenport never misses a start. 

 

* * *

 

The track is pure chaos on race day, and Kravitz is right in the center of it, wishing he could be anywhere else. 

 

He’d been against helping Captain Bane from the start, but with no evidence of any actual crime related to the Gaia Sash, there'd been no good reason to deny his request either. They've got no leads on the thieves’ guild, and no information about the Sash that they didn't already have.

 

And now, it seems he's gone from one dead end to another. 

 

Kravitz doesn't know much about the illegal wagon racing in Goldcliff, aside from the big news stories and the anecdotes he's heard from Hurley. But as Captain Bane had explained to them, part of the reason it continues to thrive is its unpredictable schedule: if the militia doesn't know when it's happening, it becomes much harder to stop it. 

 

This time, apparently, he'd received intel. The exact date and time when the race was supposed to start. An opportunity for the perfect setup, with help from his new  _ friends _ from the task force. 

 

It's just too bad that they're  _ late. _

 

By the time they'd arrived at the starting line, all that was left of the racers was a still-dissipating dust cloud and the distant roar of engines. 

 

Kravitz is pissed. 

 

“Who did you say your informant was, Captain Bane?”

 

The Captain coughs. “It was anonymous,” he says gruffly. 

 

“Of course it was.”

 

“Look, Lieutenant, this was clearly a legit tip--”

 

“With the wrong starting time.”

 

“--and furthermore, I don't think I appreciate your  _ tone--” _

 

Kravitz tunes him out almost immediately, still stuck on that one detail. Everything else about the tip had been correct - day, location, even the number of racers, which he has no choice but to assume is accurate, considering they're all long gone. 

 

So why was the  _ time _ wrong?

 

Some indescribable fear prickles at the back of his mind. He turns away from Captain Bane entirely, ignoring the way the man sputters indignantly, and lifts his Stone of Farspeech to his mouth.

 

“Barry? Lup? Status report, now.”

 

He'd left the two of them at the Goldcliff Trust as a precaution - it wouldn't do to leave the place totally unguarded. Lup had gestured at bank as if to say “You do know this place has a big fuck-off vault in it, right?” and called him paranoid. 

 

And now she isn't answering. Neither of them are. 

 

“One of you better answer me or so help me--”

 

There's a crackling sound, and a deep, throaty cough. And then Lup says, her voice hoarse as she talks over the person coughing, “Cool your jets, boss man.”

 

Kravitz goes from relief to concern in two seconds flat. He gestures for the rest of the team to follow him as he heads back in the direction of the Goldcliff Trust. 

 

“What's going on over there?”

 

“Ambush. I think the race was a diversion. There's so many more of them than we thought…”

 

Kravitz purses his lips, tamping down the urge to let out a roar of frustration. 

 

“Do they have the Sash?”

 

There's silence over the Stone for a few beats too long before Lup says, “Last we saw they were headed for the vault. They'll have it soon, if they don't already.” There's a quiet but distinct sniffle before she adds, “I'll--I can go after them, but… Barry's hurt pretty bad…”

 

Kravitz sighs. “No, stay where you are, we're on our way.”

 

The last thing he hears before the Stone clicks off is Barry, his voice muffled and distant as he says, “Why's it always gotta be me?”

 

With Hurley’s help, they make it across the city in half the time it took them to get to the track with Captain Bane leading the way. The scene outside the bank is just as chaotic as the place they left. A crowd of people wearing Goldcliff Trust uniforms stands off to one side, huddled together, staring at the bank's entrance as if waiting for some kind of monster to emerge from it. Passersby point upwards and whisper about the once-perfect skyscraper, which now features several gaping, rectangular holes where windows used to be. The decorative shrubbery that lines the path leading up to the door is, for some reason, on fire. 

 

He tasks Hurley with finding a way to douse the flames and takes Killian and Roswell with him inside, their boots crunching over broken glass as they cross the threshold. The destruction appears to have continued in here, but the first thing he looks for is his team. Lup is sitting with her back against the teller booth, with Barry laying on the floor next to her, his head in her lap. She's got a long cut across her cheek but otherwise appears to be fine. Barry, on the other hand, is covered in sweat and blood, and he looks dazed. Whatever happened in here, he took the brunt of it. 

 

Lup doesn't even wait for him to ask; as soon as she sees them come in, she gestures to the elevator and says, “Go, we'll be fine! They haven't come down yet, at least not that way.”

 

Kravitz nods, and the three of them head for the elevator. Thankfully, it's undamaged, but the long, slow ride all the way to the top floor is tedious at best. Killian and Roswell press themselves against the back wall as he paces across the tiny space, agitation making his hands clench into fists. 

 

It's been a long day of disappointments, and he has a feeling it's not over yet. 

 

When the elevator dings, Kravitz is expecting to step out into a scene similar to the one downstairs - shattered windows, scorch marks, hell, maybe even a crowd of thieves waiting for him with weapons and wands drawn, because that's the kind of day he's having. Which makes the tranquility of the top floor a complete shock. It looks exactly as it did when they came to inspect it yesterday - opulent, glimmering, with not a single chip in the panels of gold leaf that line the walls. Nothing is out of place.

 

Except for the vault door, which is wide open. 

 

His heart drops into his stomach, but his body moves automatically: scan the area for threats, listen for sounds inside the vault, communicate with his team using only hand signals. When he finally walks into the vault after making sure the area is secure, there's no one in sight. 

 

The thieves are long gone. 

 

Everything is the same in here too. Gold, jewels, art, artifacts - dozens of items worth more on their own than what he makes in a year, and none of it has been taken. But the pedestal in the center of the room where the Sash was kept on display is now empty.

 

In its place is a note. Kravitz is sorely tempted to rip it to shreds without even reading it. But after all the trouble he went to getting Julia to contact the Mongoose for him, he figures that would be kind of a waste. So he picks it up and examines it instead. 

 

_ It's cherry blossom season.  _

_ \- Mongoose _

 

Kravitz flips the note over, expecting more, but that's it. A single puzzling sentence. He has no idea what it's supposed to mean. 

 

The investigation and clean-up lasts well into the night, and provides them with very few leads. Barry counted eight intruders: Lup insists there were only six. And every single one of them wore an animal mask of some variety. The task force began referring to them by their animals, for lack of a better method: the note-leaving Mongoose, the Bear who led the attack, the Elephant who guarded their backs. They have loose descriptions now, at least. But three of the relics are now gone, and if they keep disappearing at this rate, the investigation is only going to get harder. 

 

When it's all said and done, Kravitz finds himself walking the streets of Goldcliff well past midnight, exhausted but unable to sleep. At least Goldcliff is a good place for that sort of thing. The taverns don't ever seem to close here, and each one he passes spills the same words out into the night: “Robbery at the Goldcliff Trust, the relic stolen, no suspects. And if they can break into a bank like  _ that,  _ what's going to stop them anywhere else?”

 

Kravitz wishes he could give them answers. But he doesn't even have any for himself. 

 

At least Hurley had one for him: it is, in fact, cherry blossom season, and there's only one place in the city where that matters. She'd offered to go with him, but he'd insisted that she go spend more time with her “family” before they left for Neverwinter tomorrow. Judging by the way her eyes lit up, at least one of them has something happy to look forward to tonight.

 

He follows her directions to the Goldcliff city center. It's not that far from the Trust, but as he steps through a gap between two tall buildings, it might as well be a whole different world. 

 

Most of the square is devoted to a shallow pond, in the center of which is a towering old tree that seems to be shedding blossoms as quickly as it grows them. The ground and the pond’s surface are covered in soft pink petals. Despite the business of the rest of the city, there aren't many people here right now. Which makes it significantly less awkward for Kravitz to cross the little stone path to the tree and pull down the carefully folded note that hangs from a low branch near the trunk. 

 

_ Heya, _

_ Found something almost as gorgeous as you. Don't worry though, there's no competition here. Trees aren't really my type. _

_ Pretty romantic spot though, huh? Wish I could've joined you, but this train's gotta keep on rolling, you know? Maybe some other time.  _

_ I know you’ve got zero reason to believe me when I say that I’m interested in you. That’s fine, I don’t blame you. And there’s no reason for you to believe what I’m gonna say next either, but… I think you need to hear it before we meet in person. _

_ What we’re doing here, with these relics? It’s important. More important than a few busted wagons and panes of glass, and definitely more important than me. But you know, even if it wasn’t? It wouldn’t matter. _

_ I don’t know if you’ve ever had people who cared so much about you that they’d put your life before their own - the kind of people who leave themselves open in order to shield you from a spell, or take a sword hit that was meant for you - but that’s who these people are to me. And if they ask me to steal a few ancient pieces of junk? That’s what I’m gonna do. Because without them, I’ve got nothing. _

_ So I’m not gonna stop. But I’ll cook you the best fucking dinner of your life to make up for it, how’s that sound? _

_ See you soon. _

_ \- T. _

 

Under the signature is an address for an apartment in Neverwinter. 

 

When Kravitz finishes reading, he folds the note back up and puts it carefully in his pocket for safekeeping until he can get back to their hotel and put it in his evidence bag.

 

But even as he has that thought, he knows this particular note is never going to make it in there. This one, he’s keeping for himself.


	5. Eye to Eye

Knowing what to expect at Parley this time doesn’t make walking into the building with no name any easier. But Merle’s not one for giving up.

 

Well, unless the money’s right. Or if he gets too scared. There’s probably some extenuating circumstances. But the majority of the time, he’s not one for giving up, and this time? Hell, this time is more important than ever.

 

John has arrived before him again, and he stands up to greet Merle the same way he did last time.

 

“Merle! Lovely to see you again. I hope you’ve been well?”

 

“Still kickin’, still livin’ life, the usual. Can't complain!”

 

“Good, that's good.” John waits for Merle to take his seat across the table before sitting back down himself. “That's… quaint?”

 

Merle laughs. “Well hell, John, ain't you enjoyin’ life too? Way I see it, we got a pretty good deal, people like us.”

 

John looks almost confused. “I suppose enjoyment is not high on the list for me.”

 

What kind of thief doesn't get a thrill just from doing the job, Merle thinks. Even for as many years as he's been doing it, as tired as he sometimes gets, he always looks forward to what the next day is going to bring. 

 

“Sounds like a rough life to me,” Merle says. 

 

“Perhaps.” John regards him critically, and his face twists into something darker. “Although my life would be much less ‘rough’ if I had the relics.”

 

Merle chuckles nervously. “Ah, yeah, I figured you might have something to say about those.”

 

“How very astute of you.”

 

There's a protracted silence that John seems unwilling to break. Merle clears his throat. 

 

“So, question for a question again? Seemed to work okay last time.”

 

John smiles the way he did before, all teeth and no humor, and Merle barely holds in a shudder. “Sure, why not? I believe it's my turn to go first?” Without waiting for a confirmation, John straightens in his chair and asks, “What will it take to get your crew to stop hunting the relics?” When Merle doesn't respond immediately, he adds, “As I said before, gold is no issue, Merle, whatever price you require is surely manageable.”

 

Merle takes a deep, steadying breath. “It ain't gold that's the problem. We're, uh… we're in this one for the long haul, John. I know that ain't what you want to hear, but my boss, she's been real clear ‘bout seein’ this through.”

 

John leans across the table towards him, and Merle tries very hard to remain still. “Seeing  _ what _ through, exactly?”

 

“I think I answered your one question already.”

 

There's a tense silence, during which Merle is almost certain he's about to beef it. And then the tension is gone almost as quickly as it appeared, and John is sitting back in his seat as if nothing happened.

 

“Of course, Merle, my apologies. It's your turn,” he says, gesturing for Merle to proceed.

 

“Well, uh… I guess what I wanna know is, why’re these relics so important to you?”

 

John laughs. It's not a pleasant sound. 

 

“Merle, don't tell me you've been hunting these things down with no idea what they're capable of?” John claps his hands in what a normal person might describe as joy, as if it's the funniest thing he's ever heard. “My, but Lucretia really  _ does  _ have you on a tight leash, doesn't she?”

 

“I guess she does,” Merle says, feigning a grimace.

 

“They’re far more than just some valuable trinkets, Merle. They are… hmm. They’re  _ keys, _ in a sense. And what they unlock?” John puts his palms flat on the table and leans closer to Merle again. “What they unlock, Merle? Well, let’s just say that my…  _ employers _ want what they unlock very much. And they will do anything to get it.”

 

The “and you’re not going to stop us” bit seems sort of implied. But given what he knows about the relics? Not all that unexpected, either. These guys are the real deal, whoever they are, and no amount of parley is going to change their goals. Which makes him wonder what exactly he’s doing here at all. Why bother with these negotiations when they clearly know so much about the IPRE? Why not just take what they want and be done with it?

 

Just like last time, Merle leaves Parley with more questions than answers, and a lingering feeling that he’s the field mouse being stalked by the eagle in the sky, just waiting for the opportunity to strike.

 

* * *

 

Killian typically doesn’t make a habit of wandering around the streets of Neverwinter at night with no particular destination in mind. But she’s starting to realize that most things she does with Carey are infinitely more interesting than if she tried to do them by herself.

 

Carey leads her down streets she's never noticed before, to shops she's never heard of, and buys her snacks from street vendors that look questionable but taste fantastic. And she does it all with a laugh and a smile and a hand tucked neatly into Killian’s.

 

She hasn't let go for about six blocks now. Not that Killian is counting or anything. 

 

After Carey points out the spot where she first got arrested (“And I mean, yes, I  _ did  _ steal the guy's gold pouch, but I just wanted to see if I could do it!”), she says, “I feel like I've just been talking about myself this whole time! You should totally stop me.”

 

“I don't mind,” Killian says, smiling down at her. “It's interesting to see the city from a different perspective. I still feel like I don't know much about it, even though I've been here a while.”

 

“Where did you live before?”

 

“Waterdeep. That's where I was born.”

 

Carey's eyes light up. “Ooh! I've never been! Tell me about it?”

 

Killian starts to tell her about the city, secretly a little (a lot) pleased by how interested Carey is, but she doesn't get very far before she feels something… off. A prickle at the back of her neck, a vague feeling that she's being watched. She stops mid-sentence and turns, staring back in the direction of the alley they just passed. Carey stops too.

 

“What's up?” she says, looking concerned. 

 

“I thought…” Killian shakes her head. “This is really weird and probably just paranoia, but for a while I've been feeling like I'm being followed.”

 

Carey snorts. “A cop, being paranoid? No way.”

 

Killian turns to glare at her, but Carey is smiling widely. Killian sighs.

 

“I guess that's probably just all it is.”

 

Carey tilts her head to the side, as if listening to something closely. “Maybe not,” she says, and before Killian can stop her, she takes off toward the alley and disappears from sight. 

 

Killian races after her, but from the mouth of the alley she can't see anything. Everything is silent for a moment, as if the entire city is holding its breath. And then there's a high-pitched yelp and the sounds of a struggle. 

 

“Carey!”

 

“Got him!” Carey calls from the darkness, her voice muffled. Killian spares a moment to feel relieved that she didn't manage to get Carey killed on their second date, because it would have been a real bummer to not get to the third one. 

 

The struggle continues for a few moments, and then Carey reappears, looking no worse for wear. She's dragging a young human child by the scruff of the neck. He's wearing a fancy but frayed suit and a chipped pair of glasses, through which he’s glaring up at Carey indignantly. 

 

“Turns out it wasn't just paranoia,” Carey says, giving Killian a wink. “Who are you, kid?”

 

“I’m Angus McDonald, ma’am, the thievery kid!” he says politely, if a bit reluctantly. 

 

Carey glances at Killian, clearly surprised. “You know him?”

 

“Never seen him before,” Killian says, staring at the kid in bemusement. Is he really the one who's been tailing her all this time? She crouches down in front of him to get a better look at his face; he doesn't flinch, but his eyes go the tiniest bit wider. Brave kid. “Why are you following me, Angus?”

 

Angus purses his lips, like he doesn't think he should say anything at all.

 

“Hey, kid,” Carey says. She gestures at Killian. “You probably know she's a cop, right? Whatever trouble you're in, she can help. And if she can't, well, I'm  _ not _ a cop, but I got my ways too.”

 

“Not the usual method,” Killian mutters, “but whatever works, I guess.” She's never been great with children, but Carey seems completely at ease. 

 

“I'm not in trouble,” Angus says. “At least, none that you can prove.”

 

Carey bursts into laughter. Killian glares at her, forcing down a smile of her own. This kid is something else. 

 

“But I--I need to know what you know!” he adds, pushing his glasses back up on his face.

 

“About what?” Carey asks, but Killian has a pretty good idea. All the places she thought she was just seeing shadows - the library, the Historical Society… 

 

“What do you know about the relics, Angus?” she says. Carey stares at her, wide-eyed.

 

Angus draws himself up, looking remarkably serious for such a young kid, and he says, “The relics are gonna destroy the world, and we need to stop it from happening.”

 

“Who's ‘we’?”

 

Angus smiles proudly. “We're the Bureau of Balance, ma’am! And we work best in the shadows.”

 

Killian doesn't even see him move - one second he's standing perfectly still, smiling innocently up at her, and the next he's throwing something small to the ground that breaks with the sound of shattering glass. The space around her and Carey fills with a thick, black smoke. Breathing it in seems to have no adverse effects, but it's impossible to wave away. Killian fumbles for Carey's hand in the darkness, and when she finally finds it after a few terrifying seconds, she pulls them both forward until they break through the smoke on the other side. 

 

Angus McDonald is nowhere to be seen. 

 

Carey looks up at her, grinning. “You sure know how to pick fun and interesting date nights.”

 

Killian shrugs helplessly. “Well, you know… I do my best.”

 

* * *

 

Taako doesn't normally get nervous before a date - why would he, when any guy would be lucky to have the privilege of taking him out? 

 

But he also doesn't normally invite the detective who's been trying to catch him for weeks over for dinner, so he supposes he can make an exception. 

 

He fusses with the sauce for the third time in as many minutes before throwing his hands up and stepping away from the stove. This lasts for all of two seconds before he's back in front of it again, this time to carefully stir the ravioli, making sure none of it sticks to the bottom of the pot. They won't need much longer…

 

If Lup could see him now, she'd give him a whack with the nearest spatula and tell him to “Chill, babe, it's all going to be perfect.”

 

She's not here, though. He’s probably better off not thinking about her at all tonight, in fact. 

 

Just as he's inching closer to the saucepan again to make absolutely sure it's fine, there's a timid knock at the door. He whirls around, the urge to panic bubbling up in his throat, but no, he can do this. He's made his precautions, he's got an escape planned in case things go  _ very _ badly, and most importantly, he looks damn good tonight and he's not about to waste this outfit on some rando at a tavern when there's an incredibly handsome man just outside the door. 

 

Taako's halfway to said door when he says, quietly, “Oh shit,” and dashes back to the kitchen to retrieve his mask. It's a necessary evil, unfortunately, but at least he saved time by not having to do his makeup.

 

Now disguised, he makes his way back to the door. He pauses with his hand on the knob, takes a deep breath, and then throws it open. 

 

Who gave a cop the right to be so damn gorgeous anyway? What a  _ waste.  _

 

Kravitz stands frozen just outside the door, his hand halfway up as if he'd been about to knock again. He lets it drop to his side, and there's an extended, painful moment of awkward silence, during which Kravitz shifts from side to side and Taako completely forgets how to invite a person inside. 

 

And then Kravitz stares directly at his face. And he snorts. 

 

“You know,” he says, “if you hadn't signed your notes I would never have figured out what the hell kind of animal that is.”

 

Taako manages to pull himself together enough to press an affronted hand to his chest, even as he steps out of the way to let Kravitz inside.

 

“I'll have you know that the mongoose is a very noble animal, with a long history of heroic deeds in the service of other animals.”

 

“A good representation of you, then?”

 

Taako flicks the door shut with a careless hand. “Not even a little bit, my dude. But I  _ am _ pretty good at scaring off snakes.”

 

Kravitz grins at him. “I guess it’s a good thing I left my militia-issued snake mask at the office then, huh?”

 

What a fucking dork, Taako thinks. He refuses to find it even the slightest bit endearing. Nope, not happening. Definitely just a big, handsome, witty  _ dork _ of a detective. He really should check on that sauce again…

 

“Make yourself at home,” he says as he wanders back into the kitchen. “It'll be ready in a few.”

 

“And whose home is this, exactly?” Kravitz asks through the gap of space over the bar, leaning against it to watch him work. “It's a pretty nice place.”

 

Taako tries three different cabinets before he finds plates. He can hear Kravitz chuckling behind him. “Well, only the best for Ol’ Blue Eyes, I suppose.”

 

The chuckling stops. “Ol’ Blue--hey. You're just goofing, right?”

 

“I mean, it's a possibility.”

 

“Oh my god.” Taako glances over his shoulder to find Kravitz staring around the lavishly-decorated apartment with renewed interest. “I can't use  _ any _ of this.”

 

Taako laughs. “Poor little detective. It's okay, handsome, you'll get him one of these days.”

 

Kravitz watches as he plates up pasta for both of them and carefully covers it in the sauce he's been worrying over, which of course has turned out perfect despite his meddling.

 

“With my current track record? I'm not so sure.”

 

Their eyes meet over the bar, and Taako is once again struck by the absurdity of the situation. 

 

“Yeah, no, that's fair. I mean, I'm sure you're great at your job and all.”

 

Kravitz raises an eyebrow, but doesn't appear overly hurt when he says, “But not good enough?”

 

“Well.” Taako goes to pick up the plates to carry them out to the dining room, but decides at the last second on a little flair. He picks up the umbrella leaning against the counter instead and waves it, and the plates float up and through the bar window on either side of Kravitz's head to land on the table. Kravitz laughs, trying to follow them with his eyes and failing. Somehow, it's a good look on him. “We can't all be the best.”

 

“I suppose not.” Taako waits for him to choose a seat before taking the other, a gesture that doesn't seem to be lost on Kravitz, who gives him a brief nod - no one’s getting poisoned tonight. He smiles as he adds, “Although I'm not quite convinced that  _ you're _ the best, either.”

 

“I guess you'll just have to wait and see then, won't you?”

 

Kravitz stares at him intensely, and Taako has the very disorienting dual feeling of wanting to flee and wanting to invade his space, to forget about dinner entirely and dine on something far more interesting. And then Kravitz breaks the tension with a quiet chuckle. 

 

“The mask really is very distracting,” he says as he picks up his fork. 

 

Taako follows suit with a shrug. “The things we do for fashionable anonymity.” He pops a ravioli in his mouth and chews, considering, and then adds, “You know, I'm wondering, while we're on the subject… exactly how long does this whole not arresting me thing last? Because I'm really sort of attached to not being arrested.”

 

Kravitz laughs. “At least until after dinner,” he says, teasing. He takes a bite of his own, and his eyes light up immediately at the taste. “Holy shit. This is  _ amazing. _ Spinach and mushroom? And what is this  _ sauce?” _

 

Something in Taako settles at the sight of Kravitz's clear enjoyment, and he allows himself a small, genuine smile. “Champagne cream sauce, homie. Only the best for my arch nemesis.”

 

Kravitz mutters “Holy shit” one more time as he licks the sauce off his fork, and Taako laughs. And then Kravitz's brain seems to catch up to the conversation, and he gives Taako another of those piercing looks. It reminds Taako of when they first met at the Historical Society, the way nothing seemed to escape his notice until it was forced away. Being on the receiving end of a look like that is unnerving, but not entirely unpleasant. 

 

“Is that what we are?”

 

“What?” Taako says, utterly distracted by the shape of Kravitz's lips as they form the words. 

 

“The arch nemesis thing.”

 

Taako gestures between the two of them, detective and thief. “Isn't that generally how this works?” 

 

Kravitz pointedly pops another ravioli into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “I don't usually make a habit of dining with known criminals, no. Although if they all cook like you do I might have to start.”

 

“So why make an exception for me?”

 

Something indefinable flickers across Kravitz's face. He opens his mouth to speak and almost immediately closes it again, not meeting Taako's eyes. And boy, does Taako desperately want to know what he was about to say. 

 

When he does finally find the words, they're careful, measured. “I think we can help each other out. Give each other a hand, maybe.”

 

Taako smirks. Kravitz blushes. It's a very good look on him. 

 

“That's not what I meant, but…”

 

“Buuuut?”

 

“Anyway,” Kravitz says loudly, over the sound of Taako's laughter, “look, it's--it's about the relics.” When Taako goes abruptly quiet, he continues, “I had my team do some research on them, after Phandalin. They found something… strange. A passage about the relics being unified to create some sort of powerful arcana. They dismissed it as simple fantasy. I guess I'm… a little more open-minded. And given what you said in that note, about this whole thing being important… I guess that could've just been a lie. But I don't think it is.”

 

And Taako, well, he has a choice to make, doesn't he? Because every word he says, every fact he confirms, is a betrayal. Lucretia will already be livid when she finds out about this little dinner date, no matter what he says next, but he can play off a little flirting a lot easier than he can a helping hand from a militia lieutenant. 

 

But he thinks of the way Julia hugged him when she gave him Kravitz's note, and how her “Be careful, Taako” hadn't been in reference to Kravitz at all. He thinks of how badly Merle was shaking when he came back from Parley, and how much Angus stuttered when he talked about the things he found in his books, and so many other little things. And he thinks that they might be in over their heads on this one, steadily being dragged under the surface of some nameless darkness with each relic they collect. 

 

Maybe a helping hand is exactly what they need, even if it sits uncomfortably in his gut to accept it at all. 

 

“It wasn't a lie,” Taako says quietly. “But it's still pretty unbelievable.”

 

“Everything about this case has been unbelievable from the start, so I can probably handle a little more.” Kravitz's full attention is on him, his dinner forgotten, barely-contained curiosity in every inch of his posture. “If you're up for it, that is.”

 

“Oh, I'm always up for it, babe, don't you worry about that.” Kravitz rolls his eyes. “I know what passage you're talking about. It's archaic as shit, but you got the gist of it. Put all the relics together in the same place, say a few words, and boom! You've got a portable supernova, or some shit. At least, as far as we can tell.”

 

“And is that… what you're trying to do?”

 

“Hell no! Something like that, that's what the bad guys use to make the world a way shittier place than it already is.”

 

“I mean,” Kravitz says, giving Taako a pointed look, “you kind of  _ are _ the bad guys, aren’t you?”

 

“Yeah, that's fair. But in this case, I guess… I guess we're the bad guys who are trying to do something good, for a change. We’re not that one-dimensional, you know? We're not just--” Taako cuts himself off with a sigh and looks away. What would a cop know about what they've been through, anyway? Maybe this  _ is _ just a waste of time. 

 

Kravitz is quiet for a moment. He takes another bite of ravioli and makes a pleased sound. When Taako looks up, Kravitz is watching him, the tines of his fork pressed against his lower lip in contemplation. 

 

“I don't know what all you've done,” he says finally. “You or your friends. Maybe you had your reasons, maybe you didn't. Ultimately, the reasons aren't supposed to matter to me. It's just supposed to be right and wrong. And I think that’s pretty bullshit. I think those reasons matter.” He meets Taako’s eyes, and there’s that feeling again, like being pinned in place, like being examined down to his very bones. Kravitz smiles. “Which makes me a bad cop, but a pretty great detective. Ignoring all recent evidence to the contrary,” he adds a bit sheepishly as an afterthought.

 

“So… I mean, why go into law enforcement? If you’re such a  _ bad boy.” _

 

Kravitz laughs at that. “Well, it wasn’t where I thought I would end up. But I don’t think being a thief was what you planned on either, was it?”

 

“Maybe not, but I’m damn good at it,” Taako says, flipping his hair back over his shoulder.

 

“Necessity breeds ingenuity.”

 

And that’s the point he’s trying to make, isn’t it, Taako thinks. That sometimes what it takes to win isn’t playing by the rules, but playing them to your advantage. Kravitz is taking just as much risk being here as Taako is in talking to him, trying to walk that fine line of not revealing too much while still inching closer to some semblance of trust. It’s… well, it’s still pretty terrifying. But maybe, just this once, he needs to grab hold of that fear instead of running away from it.

 

Maybe that’s exactly what they all need to make this whole insane plan work.

 

Taako takes a deep breath. And then he tells Kravitz everything he knows about the Hunger.


	6. Marks or No Marks

Hurley is having an extraordinarily long day.

 

It starts with Kravitz storming into the office late in the morning, looking like he’d barely slept at all the night before. Unfortunately for Hurley, she’s the first person his eyes find amidst the sea of desks, and so it’s her to whom he issues an order: find every scrap of information she can on a man named John Esuriens and any known associates. And, because she’s easily the most responsible detective on this whole team, she takes it upon herself to search the archives for mentions of any of the other names that have come up during their investigation.

 

The fact that she’s been putting off a visit to the archives just as much as the rest of the team does not, she thinks, detract from her being the  _ best employee ever. _

 

The Neverwinter militia archives are deep underground, taking up several floors below the surface. The official stance is that all the important documents and evidence should be kept somewhere safe, since the place contains decades of information on criminals in the city and beyond.

 

Personally, Hurley thinks the several feet of earth and concrete are the only things keeping the rest of them safe from  _ him. _

 

She can’t help but feel like the elevator doors closing behind her sound rather like a death knell.

 

“WELCOME TO THE BASEMENT!!” says the mysterious being sitting behind the front desk. Somehow, she can never quite make out the details of his face. “I’M GARFIELD, THE ARCHIVES WARLOCK!!”

 

“Yes, I know Garfield, we’ve met before.”

 

“HAVE WE?? I SPEND SO MUCH TIME ALONE DOWN HERE THAT THINGS SOMETIMES GET CONFUSING!!” Garfield leans across the desk towards her. “WHAT BRINGS YOU TO MY LOVELY BASEMENT TODAY??”

 

“I, uh… I need to see if we have any records associated with a few names we’ve picked up on our current case.”

 

“SPLENDID!! GARFIELD IS ALWAYS HAPPY TO HELP!!” He smiles, wide and eerily disconcerting. “BUT WHAT WILL YOU GIVE ME IN RETURN??”

 

Hurley sighs and reaches into her bag. She’s got a few options to choose from, because it’s always impossible to know what Garfield will like each time, but she starts with the cheapest option just in case. A small, plastic replica of the Oculus from the Neverwinter Historical Society gift shop, complete with a faux gold chain.

 

It seems to be the right choice. Garfield’s eyes light up, and he holds out his hand. “WHAT AN EXQUISITE PIECE!! I WILL ACCEPT!! WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW??”

 

Garfield is perfectly helpful after that in a way that is somehow more disturbing than ever. And for the amount of information she actually gets, the whole ordeal almost seems pointless. The name Kravitz gave her, John Esuriens, shows up only once: on a list of victims from a fire at the old Neverwinter Auditorium more than a century ago. “Mongoose” doesn't appear on any lists at all, and the single initial signed on the other note is nothing to go on in the first place. The “Bureau of Balance” is either a false name or a completely new thieves’ guild, because there's no record of it; it must be a cover name, she thinks, because what kind of guild would choose the relics as their first ever target? There are a few vague references to the relics themselves - thwarted robbery attempts, mostly, and one or two formal requests to the militia for help with escorting the Oculus to some other location. Nothing of import.

 

But there's something just slightly…  _ off _ about the files that Garfield brings her. She's not exactly sure what. It's just a feeling, some lingering touch of magic that she has no words for. She's not a magic user, but she's been doing this long enough to get a feel for it. It's especially noticeable when she realizes that it's selective - the record about John Esuriens seems fine.

 

Someone has tampered with these records.

 

“Garfield, when was the last time someone asked to see these?”

 

Garfield tilts his head and taps one clawed finger to his temple in an exaggerated thinking motion. “A FEW MONTHS AGO!! FOUR, FIVE PERHAPS??”

 

“Do you remember what they looked like?”

 

“LET'S SEE IF I REMEMBER!!” Garfield adopts what Hurley assumes to be a pensive look. “YES, YES, SHE WAS TALL, DARK-SKINNED, WITH WHITE HAIR!! A VERY SWEET WOMAN, FROM MANAGEMENT, I THINK!!” Garfield sighs dreamily. “SHE LEFT ME THE MOST WONDERFUL GIFT.”

 

“Right,” Hurley says, closing the files and handing them back to Garfield. “Just one more thing: I need a list of all known master forgers in Neverwinter.”

 

The elevator, when she finally escapes to it, is a huge relief. She leans against the back wall, examining the list in her hands. There's no one in management who fits that description, she knows, but someone on this list just might. 

 

It's not much, but it's a better lead than they had when she went down there. But more concerning is the idea that someone could have snuck in here and messed with the archives without anyone even realizing it. There's magical traps and wards all over this building - how did this mystery woman get past every single one of them?

 

Back in the office, she makes her way over to Kravitz's desk. He's staring intently at a piece of paper in his hands, and when she greets him with a “Hey, boss,” he startles and drops the paper onto his desk. And he appears to be… blushing?

 

Kravitz clears his throat. “Yes, Hurley, what did you find?”

 

Hurley doesn't answer immediately. The paper is upside down from where she's standing, but it's handwritten on a scrap of parchment in a very familiar script. 

 

“Didn’t find anything on that John guy, but we might have another problem. Is that a new note?”

 

“What?” Kravitz looks down at it. His hand twitches near the corner, as if he wants to shove it under the stack of papers in his inbox so Hurley can't see it. “Oh. Yes, as a matter of fact, but I don't believe it to be… relevant. To the case, that is. What’s this about another problem?”

 

Now, Hurley knows some grade-A bullshit when she hears it, but she's never seen Kravitz as the kind of guy who would lie about something important to a case… especially not one as important as this. She thinks of the last note they got, and of Kravitz asking her for directions to the cherry blossom tree in Goldcliff. And then there's the way he keeps rushing off on certain days to who knows where, and the fact he was so tired this morning…

 

It doesn't take a detective to figure out what's going on. But then, Hurley is also an exceptionally good detective. 

 

“You too, huh?”

 

Kravitz blinks, confused and still faintly red in the face. “What?”

 

“Notes from a criminal admirer? Meeting up at the most romantic spot in Goldcliff?”

 

“That's not--” Kravitz looks stunned. “What do you mean ‘You too?’”

 

Hurley smiles slightly. “What people generally mean when they say that. You're not the only one.” She leans against the edge of his desk and glances around. Killian is busy at her desk across the room, but otherwise they're alone. “My girlfriend, she's a battle wagon racer… among other things. Back in Goldcliff. I don't actually have any family there - I was just going to see her.” She smiles, thinking of the note she'd found in her pocket after they'd left Goldcliff. “That's how it started for us. She kept sending me invitations to her garage until I finally accepted.”

 

Kravitz opens his mouth to speak, but almost immediately closes it again. He looks like he can't pick from the million questions he's got floating around in his brain. 

 

Finally he says, “What made you decide to go?”

 

Hurley laughs. “Recklessness, mostly. Curiosity. Fascination with racing. Investigating was pretty low on my list, actually, but that was the excuse I used.” She shrugs. “It's not… it was wrong of me, I suppose, but it never felt that way. If that makes sense.”

 

“Yeah,” Kravitz says, his eyes straying to the note on his desk again. “That… makes sense.”

 

“It's a weird situation for sure. No point pretending it's not.” She gives Kravitz a considering look. “I suppose I shouldn't be telling you any of this if I value my job - which I do, very much. I love working with you guys, and I think what we do is important. It I didn't, I'd still be in Goldcliff.” She smiles wryly, and Kravitz stares at her intently now. She's familiar with this look - it's the one he sometimes gets when he's on the verge of solving some big mystery. “But other things are important too. Sometimes right and wrong isn't as clear cut as it's supposed to be.”

 

Kravitz smiles then, wide and genuine, and this is a look that Hurley isn’t familiar with at all, but it’s a damn good one on him. There's a fire in his eyes that looks like determination. He leans back in his chair, regarding her over steepled fingers.

 

“You're absolutely right, Hurley. What else did you find out from Garfield?”

 

The sudden change of topic throws her for a moment. She narrows her eyes at him. 

 

“Did I just accidentally talk you into doing something stupid and crazy?”

 

“Quite possibly, yes.”

 

“Great,” she says, rolling her eyes. She nods in Killian’s direction. “Do the rest of us get to be part of your big plan?”

 

Kravitz doesn't hesitate. “Of course. But not just yet. No sense getting the whole team on something that might not pan out.”

 

Hurley shrugs and tells him what she learned from Garfield. Kravitz takes notes and seems especially interested in the fact that John Esuriens record hadn't been tampered with. He instructs her to follow up on the list of forgers, but not to bring anyone in without running it by him first. 

 

When she's finally back at her desk, she glances over at Kravitz one last time. He’s reading the note again, a small smile on his face. 

 

* * *

 

Roswell hates visiting the lab almost as much as they hate doing research at the library, but it's a close thing. 

 

Dealing with Lucas Miller is probably at the bottom of most people’s lists. 

 

“Can I just say, that sample you all brought me from the Phandalin scene was  _ atrocious. _ A charred scrap of wood, honestly…”

 

Roswell fights the urge to roll their eyes. “We didn't have much to work with.”

 

Lucas fusses with an array of test tubes on the table in front of him, not even sparing a glance for Roswell. 

 

“Yes, well, that's been abundantly obvious.”

 

“Come now, Lucas,” Maureen says from her seat behind her desk. She gives him a stern look, and he stops fidgeting. 

 

“Right,” Lucas says, “anyway, the other samples were… adequate.” He walks over to another table, where two items are floating in midair: the blue velvet pillow from the Historical Society, and one of the Mongoose’s notes, the one he'd left on Kravitz’s desk. Beneath each of them is a circle of clear crystal, glimmering faintly with an interior light. Roswell has no idea how they work, but he knows they measure arcane energy. “We got a couple matches.”

 

“That's great news!”

 

“Well… sort of.” He gestures to the pillow. “This one's a master of illusion magic, no doubt. Probably older, with years of training. Illusions like the one you described are very hard to execute flawlessly, but based on these readings I'm not surprised they managed it. This guy should be on every list of illusion specialists we've got.” Lucas pauses, seemingly for dramatic effect. “But apparently, they don't exist.”

 

Roswell stares at him blankly. “What?”

 

“There's no record of them anywhere.” Lucas stares at them as if this should be obvious. “We don't have a profile that looks even remotely like this.”

 

“You think that's deliberate?”

 

“Deliberate? It's a conspiracy! Our profiles are flawless--!”

 

Maureen clears her throat. “What Lucas means to say is that this lab has always been incredibly thorough. If this magic user is indeed a professional thief, it's unlikely that we would never have encountered evidence of them before now.”

 

“So a conspiracy, then.”

 

Lucas throws his hands up. Maureen’s lips twitch up in a little smirk before quickly settling back into a neutral expression.

 

“The note is even stranger,” Maureen says, glancing pointedly at her son.

 

“Right, yeah.” Lucas composes himself. “Yeah, so, the note has two distinct traces of magical signatures on it. But they overlap in such a way that it's been almost impossible to examine them separately.”

 

“Meaning what, exactly?”

 

“Honestly? We have no idea. But you've got two very powerful wizards on your hands. We're still running through markers on both to see if we can't figure out how they're tied together.” 

 

Roswell nods, staring at the scrap of paper floating above its glittering crystal base. They may not know much about all this arcana stuff, but they do know this: there could be several reasons why the note carries two magical signatures, but when in doubt, always go with the explanation that makes the most sense.

 

They assumed the Mongoose was using some type of magic to plant the note on Kravitz’s desk. But maybe, one set of arcana belongs to the Mongoose, and the other belongs to whoever delivered the note for him. Which means there’s someone working on the inside.

 

* * *

 

The task force may be neck deep in the biggest case of their lives, but that doesn’t stop them from venturing out after a long day at work for their monthly visit to the best tavern in Neverwinter.

 

“Best” is a bit of a subjective term. The Legato isn't the highest-rated tavern in Neverwinter by any means, nor has it won any awards. It's a bit rundown and they play up their theme a little too much - there are old instruments lining every inch of the walls, and the food and drinks are all named after song titles. But it's been a favorite of theirs for years, and it's not too far from the militia headquarters. 

 

There's a distinct feeling of relief hovering over them all, Kravitz thinks, when they finally file through the door. The two bartenders, Ren and Noelle, shout cheerful greetings at them as they make their way to the back corner to the largest booth in the place. Captain Raven plucks the paper  _ reserved _ sign off the table and waves her hand dismissively when everyone starts objecting at once. 

 

“Now I know it's technically Roswell’s turn for first round,” she says, a smile playing around her lips. “But I also know this case has been taking a toll on all of you, and I want to show my sincere appreciation for all the hard work you've been doing… by getting you all drunk.”

 

A cheer goes up around the table as the Captain makes her way to the bar, and Kravitz smiles, ready to enjoy a night off from their work. He’s had a lot to think about recently, and turning his brain off for at least one evening sounds like a fantastic idea.

 

Everyone else, it seems, has other ideas.

 

“So what’s with the fuckin’ animal masks anyway?” Lup says, leaning back against the wall. She's in the middle of the booth, which is a good place for her; she's the kind of person who attracts attention like a magnet, and from there she can survey them all like a queen holding court. 

 

Barry shoots her a look, but Lup just pats him gently on the cheek with a fond smile. 

 

“Right? What the hell?” Killian says. “I thought the whole thieves wearing masks thing was over. Can't they just use glamours and shit?”

 

Hurley laughs and leans closer to Killian, as if about to tell her a secret, but her words are in a stage whisper that the whole table can hear. “What, does  _ Carey _ not wear a mask?”

 

There's a chorus of  _ ooooh _ ’s from the rest of the table. Killian goes a bit red in the face, but she says quietly, “Not anymore.” The table  _ awww _ ’s this time, and she glares around at all of them. “I hate you guys.”

 

“Well that's just patently untrue,” Barry says, just as Captain Raven comes back to the table. Ren follows behind her, carrying a large tray of drinks. 

 

“What's untrue?”

 

“That Killian hates us all,” Roswell says, smirking. “And that she's not into animal masks.”

 

“I didn't--!”

 

“Well, there's no accounting for taste,” Raven says, and everyone laughs. She pats Killian on the shoulder, and Killian smiles. 

 

Kravitz accepts his drink from Ren as she asks, “Y’all talkin’ bout that thieves’ guild what’re stealin’ those relics?”

 

“Yeah, Ren,” Lup says, leaning across the table. “You been hearing about them?”

 

“Only every single day! S’all anyone wants to talk about round here.” Ren finishes passing out their drinks and balances the empty tray against her hip. “I'm sure y'all are workin’ hard though!”

 

“We've done little else,” Kravitz says, and even though it's not technically a lie, the words still leave a bitter taste in his mouth. Another reminder of the heavy secret he's keeping from his team. 

 

“Well good! Maybe I'll get to hear bout some other news for a change.” Ren laughs, and then adds, “Though that Mongoose fella, he seems like quite a character!”

 

Something twists pleasantly in Kravitz's stomach at the name, and he takes a long drink of his wine. 

 

“I suppose he does,” Lup says with a shrug. “I only ever saw the back of him as he was running away.”

 

Ren grins. “Was it a good backside, at least?”

 

“Oh, the best!” Lup laughs, nudging Barry. “Wasn't it a good backside, babe? Those are your favorite.”

 

“Dunno. I was  _ through a window _ at the time,” Barry says, with no small amount of resentment. Lup ruffles his hair with an apologetic grin.

 

Ren heads back to the bar, and the task force settles in with their drinks. 

 

“I ain't even been readin’ the papers,” Roswell says. “Can't imagine they're speakin’ too kindly ‘bout us.”

 

The Captain sighs. “It's mixed, certainly. Mostly people just seem to be interested in the relics themselves. The tabloids have been particularly fond of the doomsday headlines. ‘Will the United Relics Destroy Us All?’ ” she quotes mockingly. 

 

Roswell scoffs. “Buncha nonsense.”

 

Barry opens his mouth to speak, but then seems to think better of it. Kravitz has an idea what he's thinking. What if it's not nonsense? 

 

He's had little else on his mind since his date with the Mongoose. The way he'd talked about the relics and the mysterious group that's after them, he'd seemed so  _ sure. _ As if he and his friends had no choice but to try and stop it. 

 

It's a hell of a lot of work to go through for a cover story, if that's what it is - if the plan is to just take the relics for themselves. But Kravitz doesn't think that's what it is. At the very least, these thieves believe the story they're telling, and believe they're doing the right thing.

 

And if it's all real? Well, that's not the kind of thing Kravitz can deal with on his own. He  _ should _ tell his team. He  _ should _ spend more time investigating the arcane nature of these relics. He  _ should  _ figure out the true identity of the Mongoose. 

 

Right now, he finishes his glass of wine, and tries not think about the way the Mongoose had blushed from under his mask all the way down his neck when Kravitz had taken his hand at the end of their date and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. Because down that path of thinking lies distraction. 

 

“Rough day?” says a voice in his ear, and Kravitz jumps, startled out of his thoughts. Lup has crawled into Barry's lap in order to whisper in his ear. 

 

“Aren't they all?” he says once he's recovered.

 

“Sure, sure.” She gestures at his empty glass. “Just seems particularly rough for you.”

 

Kravitz chuckles ruefully. “Too much on my mind, I guess.”

 

“This is supposed to be a party! Turn off the work brain, goofball!”

 

Barry pokes his head over Lup's shoulder, smiling slightly at her antics. “What's up, boss?”

 

This is the moment, he thinks. If he's going to tell his team the truth about what's been going on with the Mongoose, now's a very good time to do it - away from the office, over a few drinks, where the news might be softened by the atmosphere. But something stops him, even as Barry and Lup look at him expectantly. Some innate, indefinable instinct that keeps his mouth from moving to form the words. If he tells them now, then all his planning might be for nothing; if he tells them now, that might mean the Hunger will win. 

 

If he tells them now, he'll lose whatever this shifting, fragile  _ thing _ is between him and the Mongoose. Which is the last thing he should care about, but the first thing on his mind nonetheless.

 

“Do you ever…” Kravitz tries finally, searching for words that are at least adjacent to what he wants to say. “Do you ever feel like a decision you're making is both right and wrong at the same time?”

 

It's strange, sometimes, talking to Barry and Lup as a single unit. They're very different people, but Kravitz knows from experience how in sync they can be, after having been together for so long. For a few seconds, their faces are exactly the same: shock, with an aftertaste of melancholy. And then the expressions are gone, and Barry’s nodding slowly.

 

“Sure, I suppose,” he says. He leans his chin against Lup's shoulder. “Kinda comes with the job sometimes, don't it?”

 

“I guess it does.”

 

Lup stares at him for a long moment. Kravitz thinks that she almost looks sad. Her smile, when it appears, seems strained.

 

“Speaking of work,” she says, clapping her hands together and drawing the attention of everyone at the table. “We're supposed to be  _ off-duty. _ So put that frown away, boss man, and bust out a jam with me, huh?”

 

That's another great thing about the Legato. Not all the instruments are for show, and Ren and Noelle never mind when they pull a few off the wall and start playing. Kravitz chooses his favorite guitar, an old thing with a fading black paint job that plays like a dream. Barry picks a guitar too, and Lup opts for a violin that's seen better days. It takes another round of drinks and a lot of tuning before they can actually start playing, but soon enough Kravitz's fingers are drifting across the strings, picking out a harmony to Lup's impromptu song. The rest of the team talks softly amongst themselves while they play, a backdrop of murmurs, and for the first time in weeks Kravitz feels something like peace. 

 

For this one night, everything seems simple, like a four-chord song played from memory. The jarring notes of questions and suspicions are smoothed over by the melody. Before Kravitz even realizes how much time has passed, the team is closing their tabs and pulling on their jackets. The three of them replace their instruments on the walls, slotting them into place where their outlines rest, darker than the fading paint around them. 

 

They part ways outside the tavern as usual, heading in opposite directions to their own homes. Before Kravitz gets very far, Lup jogs up to his side. Kravitz turns to face her, an eyebrow raised in question. He can see Barry still back by the tavern door, leaning against the wall and watching them. 

 

Lup hesitates. That in itself makes him instantly more alert through the faint buzz of alcohol, because Lup isn't the kind of person who hesitates. 

 

“I just wanted to tell you,” she says, her hand coming up to rest on his arm. “Whatever decision you're making? I think… I  _ know _ you'll make the right choice.”

 

Kravitz sighs. “For me, or for the team?”

 

Lup is quiet for a moment, as if she's choosing her words carefully. “Just… the right one.” Then she smiles. “But knowing you, you'll figure out a way to make it work for both.”

 

Kravitz chuckles. “Flattery won't get you a raise, you know.”

 

“Damn, really?” She laughs, a sharp peal that breaks the encroaching silence of the night. Maybe it's the late hour or the three glasses of wine, but Kravitz thinks she sounds almost sad. “Guess I'll have to try harder, huh?”

 

“I suppose it can't hurt,” he teases. He pats her hand where it still rests on his arm. “But I appreciate everything you do already.”

 

“Yeah,” she says faintly, pulling her hand away. “Yeah, uh, no problem, boss. Good night.”

 

She's already walking back to Barry as he says, “Good night, Lup.”


	7. Run and Hide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long! It fought me pretty much every step of the way.
> 
> Thank you to [Rumi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lividsilk) and [Eden](http://archiveofourown.org/users/totillagarden) for the betaing and the reassurances! I appreciate y'all so much. <3

_ Hey Krav, _

_ Is it weird to say I missed you? That’s probably a third date thing, right?  _

_ Important: We need to have a third date. _

_ So let’s go for that second one first, huh? Maybe when we get back from the Frost Hills? I might even let you see my real apartment this time. _

_ Thanks again for setting up that relocation, by the way. It’s gonna make our jobs a lot easier. _

_ You’re putting a lot on the line. I think that I probably should too. _

_ See you soon. Knowing myself as I do, I’m certain you can’t wait to see me again. _

_ \- T. _

 

* * *

 

Magnus is used to standing out in a crowd, but this is just ridiculous.

 

He towers over the dwarven residents of Mithral Hall, and has to duck through every doorway. Everywhere he goes, eyes follow him - measuring, distrustful, some downright hostile. 

 

Magnus just wants to get this over with, because it's all incredibly uncomfortable.

 

Merle, on the other hand, is having the time of his life. 

 

“Ha! Guys, check this out!” Merle stops in front of a rough-hewn statue of a stately dwarven woman and gestures to the plaque affixed to the base. “She’s a Rockseeker!”

 

“As if those are hard to find,” Taako says, not bothering to stop walking. “You’re probably related to like half this town.”

 

“It’s a dream come true,” Merle says dreamily. Davenport chuckles. “These folks sure like their statues, lookit all these!”

 

As if anyone could miss them, Magnus thinks. There are dozens of statues lining the main thoroughfare - a long stretch of road hosting what seems to be the majority of this area’s businesses, all leading to the largest building in the town. The mayor’s house, Magnus assumes. Guys with big egos tend to live in big houses to make up for the fact that everything else about them is insignificant. 

 

Magnus is itching to rob this place, but he knows there's work to be done first. He just hates to wait.

 

The end of the main road opens up into a circular courtyard, the sort that usually has some kind of fountain or monument in the center of it: some grand representation of achievement or victory. But even though there’s nothing there except for a large, empty slab of smooth stone, the dwarves who pass by it go out of their way to avoid the center. They round the slab in wide half-circles as if by instinct - accounting for an object that’s no longer there.

 

“So this is where the Staff used to be,” Davenport says. “Pity. Without it, this place looks kind of…”

 

“Fucking lame?” Taako says. “You got that right, Cap.”

 

Davenport huffs. “You know you’re not supposed to call me that anymore.”

 

“Force of habit.”

 

They walk past the empty slab toward the mayor’s house, holding a loud conversation about how lovely and quaint the architecture is. Magnus makes comments about joists and paneling while Merle points out the landscaping. All the while, he knows, Davenport is making mental notes about possible entrances and Taako is testing the protective magic that no doubt surrounds the place. Once they each give the signal - two taps on their nose with their right pointer finger - the whole group follows the tall, wrought-iron fence around to a side street, complimenting the fine dwarven craftsmanship as they go. Merle points out the spikes all along the top of the fence.

 

“It's almost like they don't want anyone to break in,” Merle says with a grin.

 

They all shush him before going on at length about how carefully crafted this whole thing must have been, loudly enough that every dwarf in earshot can hear them.

 

No one likes tourists. It's the perfect way to divert attention from anyone who might question what four very obvious outsiders are doing here. 

 

And anyway, the paneling on the house  _ is _ pretty nice, so it's not like Magnus is lying.

 

They find a tavern nearby where they can wait for nightfall. It’s quiet, just outside the high-trafficked areas, and most importantly for their purposes, discreet. It's also clearly meant for dwarves, just like everything else here. They order drinks from the very bemused bartender and take them to a table in the back, where they’ll be a bit more out of sight. Magnus still draws attention - even more so than Taako, which is a feat in and of itself - but after a few minutes of blatant ogling, the other patrons return to their own drinks and conversations.

 

“Nice place,” Taako says, sneering slightly.

 

“Hey, it’s all about the  _ atmosphere,” _ Merle says, gesturing a little too wildly with his ale and sloshing a bit onto the table in front of him. “You just gotta get in the spirit!”

 

Davenport raises an eyebrow at him. “The… dwarf spirit?”

 

“Yeah, that’s the one!”

 

Magnus pretends to think about it for a moment, and then turns to Taako. He adopts a falsely plaintive voice and says, “Hey, Taako? Can you shrink me? I really wanna get into the  _ dwarf spirit.” _

 

Taako snorts. “I think it might take more spell slots than I’m capable of to get you down to Merle’s size, my dude.”

 

“Hey!” Merle says indignantly. He seems to get over it quickly enough, and shrugs. “You couldn’t handle all the goodness I’ve got contained in here anyway, big guy. Bet you’d explode or somethin’.”

 

Magnus and Taako make loud exclamations of disgust simultaneously. Davenport just rolls his eyes and takes a drink of his ale.

 

“Speaking of goodness,” Magnus says, side-eyeing Taako just as the elf goes to take a drink himself. “How was your date with the cop?”

 

Taako sputters around a mouthful of cider. Davenport mutters, “Seriously?” as he surveys the sticky mess that their table is quickly becoming. 

 

“Fine! It was fine!” Taako says after wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “It’s all good. I mean, we’re here, right?”

 

“Oh yeah, no,  _ that _ part clearly went well.” Magnus smirks, watching Taako grow increasingly uncomfortable. “But I meant the actual  _ date _ part.”

 

Merle turns his full attention on Taako, an eager grin on his face. Even Davenport tilts an intrigued ear in his direction. Taako feigns ignorance.

 

“Sorry to disappoint, my man, but it was strictly business. Got all the dirty details ironed out, formed a truce, gonna save the world, all that nonsense.” Taako examines his nails, painted a glossy purple to complement Magnus’s gold, the perfect picture of disinterest. “The dinner though? Listen, I outdid myself. Detective boy  _ wishes _ he was dating me.”

 

Magnus’s smile widens. He plays his ace in the hole. “Oh yeah? So how come a little birdie told me you were all up in arms afterwards about a  _ goodnight kiss?” _

 

Merle  _ oooh’ _ s extravagantly, while Taako just looks stunned, spots of red starting to stain his cheeks. He takes a long drink of his cider, nearly draining the glass, before he says, “Can't trust any of you chucklefucks with a damn secret, can I?” 

 

Davenport chuckles. “I don't know why you'd ever think you could.”

 

“Damn it.” When they all continue to stare at him expectantly, Taako groans. “It didn't even count, okay? It was just a…” He waves his hand vaguely over the table with his palm facing downwards, and then holds it there, as if waiting for someone to take it.

 

It takes Magnus a second, but then he gets it. “Oh my god.”

 

“Don't--”

 

“Oh my  _ god,  _ Taako--”

 

“I said  _ do not--” _

 

“He kissed your  _ hand?” _ Magnus says, delighted. “What is this, the sixteenth century?”

 

“I think it's sweet,” Davenport says. Merle gives him a considering look, as if he's thinking about stealing some of Kravitz's tricks.

 

“Yeah, get your goofs outta your system now assholes, I'm not dealing with this all night,” Taako says. “This is why I don't tell you fucks anything.”

 

Magnus ignores this. “Were you wearing a corset dress and a petticoat at the time?”

 

Merle laughs. Taako flips him off and takes a sullen gulp of cider. 

 

“I'm surprised Lucretia agreed to this, actually,” Davenport says. “Given the way it was… presented.”

 

“She sure didn't like it,” Taako mutters, and Magnus winces in sympathy. He’d been there when Taako told Lucretia what he’d been doing - the “fun and flirty game I’ve been playing, Lucy, you'll  _ love _ it!” - it makes him distinctly uncomfortable just thinking about it. “‘Putting us all at risk,’ she says. Like I don't know that.” Taako snorts. “Like we weren't at risk already.”

 

“She's not wrong,” Merle says. “Your boyfriend could just be settin’ us up.”

 

Taako shakes his head. “Then that's on me. But that's why we scoped it out first.” He takes a drink and slumps back against the wall behind him. “‘Too risky,’ honestly. What's risky is that vault she's keepin’ those relics in. I thought we  _ didn't  _ want ‘em all in one place.”

 

“Lucretia knows what she's doing,” Davenport says, waving off Taako's concerns. Magnus wonders if there could ever be a time where he thinks otherwise - where he doesn't have total faith in the girl he once mentored. It seems impossible.

 

But, he supposes, twisting his wedding ring around his finger idly, they've all got that kind of unshakeable faith in something. 

 

“Won't matter anyway, once we figure out how to destroy ‘em,” Merle says.

 

Magnus nods. “Just as long as we do it quick. We're runnin’ outta both time and relics here.”

 

Taako drains his glass and says, “Speaking of time and relics, we got places to be.”

 

It's dark when they slip out of the tavern and back towards the center of town, the streets lit only dimly by lamps on the corners and whatever light spills out from the houses. It's completely unlike Neverwinter, Magnus thinks, where no one ever seems to sleep and the streets are never dark - at least, until they need them to be. 

 

Getting in through the back entrance is no problem - they’ve broken into more heavily guarded places than this - but there’s no way to be certain what awaits them inside. All Kravitz had been able to do was ensure that the Staff was moved inside, away from prying eyes. The rest is up to them. 

 

“Think the mayor's got a secret vault or somethin’?” Merle whispers, sounding excited by the prospect as he places his owl mask over his face.

 

Taako shrugs and follows his lead. Magnus shakes his head. 

 

“We should check the front first - the entry way and the rooms off of it. Wherever people might gather,” he says. “No way this guy's not keeping this thing on display one way or another.”

 

“So the hardest rooms to get to, you mean?” Davenport says, looking dubious.

 

“Just a hunch,” Magnus says. 

 

Davenport nods and doesn't question him further. Instead of taking the first set of stairs they find - usually people hide their valuables in hidden safes on higher floors, or in basements - they make their way silently through the dark kitchen and down an equally dark hallway. Magnus keeps a hand on Taako's shoulder, letting Taako's darkvision guide them both, ducking his head down to avoid the low doorways. 

 

They pause as Merle peeks around the corner at the end of the hall. He waves Taako forward, and after a moment of observation, Taako raises his umbrella and whispers a spell. Magnus hears two soft  _ thumps,  _ and then they're moving into the entryway. It's dimly lit by street lights coming in through the windows on either side of the entrance, and Magnus sees that the  _ thumps _ were two dwarven guards, who had been standing on either side of a closed door at the opposite end of the room before Taako cast Sleep on them. 

 

“Nice hunch,” Davenport murmurs. Magnus grins. 

 

The lock on the door is mostly a joke - Taako tries Knock just for a laugh and then scoffs when there's a  _ click, _ as if he's offended that such a simple spell actually worked - and then they're through. 

 

“Huh,” Merle says after they've all piled through the door. He sounds thoroughly confused. 

 

Not that Magnus can blame him. The room they're in is some kind of office - there are shelves lined with books along the opposite wall, and an arrangement of chairs in front of a big, sturdy desk. Cedar, Magnus guesses.

 

And laying on top of the desk is the Staff. No impenetrable Mithral case, no locked chest, and, from the looks on his companions’ faces, no magical wards, either. It's just  _ there, _ as if the mayor had been showing it off to some friends and then forgot to put it back in a safer place.

 

“Cap?” Taako says, eyeing the Staff warily. 

 

Davenport shakes his head. “Not an illusion. That's the real deal.”

 

“So this is a trap, right?” Merle asks, turning to raise an eyebrow at the rest of them. 

 

“Possibly? Guess we won't know till we take it,” Magnus says. Taako starts to speak, but it’s too late. A few short steps up to the desk and Magnus has the Staff in his hands. 

 

There's about three seconds of silence. And then the loudest alarm Magnus has ever heard starts blaring throughout the entire house. 

 

“Well, I was about to say let's not be  _ complete doofuses _ about this,” Taako shouts over the sound of the alarm. “But I guess that ship done sailed.”

 

“Time to move!” Davenport says. He turns to the door, but already they can hear shouting coming from the other side as more guards arrive to discover their unconscious cohorts. 

 

“Sounds like we're not going that way,” Merle says, looking frantically around the room for another exit. 

 

Magnus doesn't bother searching. From where he's standing, there's only one way out of this room. He shouldn't be grinning at a time like this, but he is - it's the kind of look that Julia would no doubt call his “Trouble Face.” 

 

“Don't worry guys!” he calls over shoulder. “I got this!”

 

Taako says something that's probably very insulting in return, but Magnus isn't listening. He grips the Staff tight and vaults over the desk, lifting up the heavy, plush chair behind it with his other hand and hurling it through the picture window that looks out over the main street outside. There’s several shouts from both inside the room and out as he sends glass flying out onto the nicely-manicured lawn and hops up onto the sill.

 

“Magnus, what the  _ hell--” _ Merle starts to say, but Davenport cuts him off by grabbing his arm and pulling him towards the window.

 

“No time, gotta go!” Magnus replies.

 

Taako, of course, had climbed through the window only seconds after he realized what Magnus was planning, carefully avoiding all the broken glass. Taako’s very good at many things, but he’s a goddamn professional at knowing when to cut and run.

 

Magnus leads the charge down the otherwise quiet street, the sounds of the mayor’s guards giving chase growing more and more distant as Magnus and the others begin to outpace them. The statues lining the center of the road that they passed by earlier flash by in a blur as Magnus leads them to the outskirts of town, taking a circuitous route back to the wagon they rode here in, losing the guards in back alleys and side streets as they go.

 

He doesn’t stop grinning the whole way there, not even as Davenport berates him for his foolishness and Merle complains about a stitch in his side. If this whole collecting the Relics thing is going to be their last big job, then he plans to make the most of it while he can. And a night like tonight definitely qualifies.

 

* * *

 

There’s a weird sort of déjà vu about this night that Taako can’t quite shake, no matter how hard he tries. There are too many similarities: the sauce bubbling away on the stove, the mask staring at him from the counter just waiting to be put on, the nervous twitch of his ears and the way he futzes with a pair of oven mitts as he keeps a close eye on the food, making absolutely sure it’s perfect.

 

The tentative knock on the door - his door this time, the real one, not one belonging to some crooked upstart casino owner who happens to be out of town for a week - that nearly has him jumping out of his skin. 

 

It’s all very familiar. Except for how it’s going to end.

 

He slips the mask over his eyes and heads for the door, wishing the churning in his gut would chill out long enough for him to maybe enjoy at least part of this night. 

 

Kravitz, of course, looks impeccable.

 

He’s wearing slacks and a button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and he looks somehow more nervous than the last time they were in this position. But he smiles when he sees Taako in a way that puts Taako's heart in his throat. 

 

“Right on time,” Taako says, gesturing for him to come inside. “Must be a cop thing.”

 

“I think maybe it's just a  _ me _ thing,” Kravitz says distractedly. He's looking around Taako's apartment in blatant interest. “The real place this time, huh? It's nice.”

 

“Figured you earned it.” 

 

Taako leads him back to the kitchen, where he flicks the burner off and moves the pan to the side.

 

“That's one way of putting it,” Kravitz says. “The report I received from the militia unit we sent to Mithral Hall was  _ very _ interesting.”

 

“Oh yeah? Pretty impressive, right?”

 

“Impressive that you escaped, I suppose. ‘Four suspects, home invasion,’” he quotes. “‘Triggered a trap almost immediately upon entering and threw a centuries-old chair through a window, causing several thousand gold worth of property damage.’”

 

“Shit happens when you're saving the world,” Taako says with a carefully casual shrug. “ _ Thousand, _ huh? Nice.”

 

“Not nice.”

 

“Kinda nice?”

 

A grin flashes briefly across Kravitz’s face even as he shakes his head. “An odd bunch of saviors, to be sure.”

 

“Yeah,” Taako says, wondering how Kravitz can be so unconcerned about this, considering how much trouble he’d be in if anyone found out. It’s pretty much all he thought about on the wagon ride back to Neverwinter. “Fate’s weird like that.”

 

They sit down to dinner - a perfect Gnocchi Nicoise, if Taako does say so himself - and for several fantastic minutes, Taako doesn’t think about the circumstances that led them to this point. He doesn’t think about the impossible task that Lucretia has set for them, or about the Relics that are still left to collect. He doesn’t think about the Hunger, John’s mysterious employers who would set the combined power of those Relics loose on the world. He doesn’t think about why he’s so good at what he does. 

 

For a time, he’s just having a dinner date with a handsome man in his apartment, who laughs at all his stupid jokes and who hangs on his every word like each one is a precious gem. In another time and place, this night might lead to something else - the invitation to his own place might be a hint, a desire for more. 

 

In this reality, though, it’s a gesture. Taako doesn’t kid himself that it will be enough, but a part of him still hopes.

 

“That was incredible,” Kravitz says as he lays his napkin on the table next to his empty plate. Scraped clean - Taako’s tempted to offer him seconds, just to prolong the inevitable for a little bit longer.

 

“‘Course it was. Only the best for my favorite detective.”

 

Kravitz grins. “Considering your… occupation, I take that as a very high compliment indeed.” He places his hand over Taako’s where it rests on the table next to his own barely-touched plate. “Seriously though, this… inviting me to your home must have taken a lot of courage. Neither of us are in an easy position here, but I wanted you to know that I appreciate it.”

 

Taako shrugs. “Yeah well, like I said: you deffo earned it. We woulda had a lot harder time with that Staff if not for you.”

 

Kravitz leans in closer, his eyes glinting with mischief and promise. “Did I earn anything else? Your real name, perhaps? Maybe even a real good night kiss?”

 

“My name is Taako.”

 

Kravitz freezes, as if he’d expected more teasing instead of an actual response, and Taako can’t really blame him, that  _ is _ sort of his brand. But he knows a segue when he hears one. It’s a shame; they didn’t even make it to dessert.

 

“Yeah, so that’s--that’s my name. Taako. Hail and well met, and all that.” Taako takes a deep breath that does very little to steady his nerves. “I’m not supposed to be telling you that, and--and I’m not supposed to be telling you what I’m about to tell you either. But here’s--here’s the weird thing. The really, like  _ really, _ fucking weird thing: I don’t want to lie to you anymore, Kravitz.”

 

Kravitz sits back in his chair, his hand slipping away from Taako’s and leaving it somehow colder than before. His shoulders are stiff but straight, like he’s squaring up to absorb a blow. It’s startling, how quickly he switches from handsome date to stone-faced detective.

 

“Which is frustrating, you know?” Taako thumps his hand against the table, a fluster of nervous energy. “Because lying is kind of what I  _ do. _ What  _ is _ it about you, huh?”

 

“Is this why you invited me here?”

 

“No?” Taako clears his throat. “No. I--fuck. I wanted… I wanted to see you again. And then I realized that you can’t see  _ me.” _

 

Kravitz’s eyes soften, just a little. “Taako--”

 

“Okay, listen, before you say anything else…” Taako sighs and reaches behind his head to untie the cord holding the mask in place. “Just… listen, I don’t say this for just anyone, but… I’m sorry.”

 

He hesitates for only a moment before removing the mask and setting it on the table, revealing his face to Kravitz for the first time. 

 

Except that Kravitz is no stranger to this face. He’s seen it almost every day for the past year, barring a few slight differences. Taako watches the gears turn in his head, the emotions that flicker across his face - confusion, shock, betrayal - but Kravitz doesn’t speak for a long time. He just stares at Taako, in disbelief of what he’s seeing.

 

Finally he says, in a voice that sounds horribly broken, “It was Lup. The person on the inside. And Barry too, I assume.”

 

“We needed the militia’s resources,” Taako says distantly, trying to keep his voice from shaking. Kravitz is looking at him like he’s some sort of monster. “And to keep them off our backs. We knew that this--this thing with the Relics was bigger than anything we’d ever--”

 

“You mean me.”

 

Taako frowns, broken from his script, fumbling for his words. “What?”

 

“You said you needed ‘them’ off your backs. You mean me. You needed me off your--off your back.”

 

“Look, I didn’t know--”

 

“That your actions would have consequences?” Kravitz says coldly, slicing neatly through all of Taako’s excuses.

 

“I didn’t--I didn’t  _ care _ about consequences before you, okay?” Taako bursts out, anger burning through him in a flash of heat. “I just did what I had to for--for me and Lup.”

 

Kravitz stands up abruptly, pulling his jacket off the back of the chair with an irate flourish.

 

“Well, don’t let me stop you from doing what you’re so good at, then,” he says, already heading for the door. “Thanks for dinner, I guess. Tell your sister not to bother coming into work tomorrow.”

 

Taako tries to swallow around the lump in his throat. It doesn’t work. “Tell her to go into hiding, more like,” he mutters, petulant and ashamed. He’s just created more problems than he’s solved, and he knows it, but he couldn’t stop the words from coming, he just  _ had _ to tell Kravitz, and this went exactly as he expected it to… 

 

Kravitz pauses with his hand on the doorknob. His shoulders slump, and Taako can’t see his face, but he can imagine. 

 

“I won’t try to stop you from completing your mission,” he says, so quietly that Taako almost doesn’t hear him. “I just… this is too much, Taako. I can’t do this.”

 

He leaves without another word. Taako stares at the closed door for a long time before standing, stacking their dishes, preparing to clean up - going through the motions. 

 

The mongoose mask lays innocuously on the edge of the table, a silent judgement. His face twists into a grimace, something ugly and pained to match the state of his heart, and in one swift motion, he picks it up and flings it at the wall. It breaks cleanly down the center, right along the nose. 

 

Taako doesn’t even give it a backwards glance as he carries the plates into the kitchen.

 

He works for hours, scrubbing until the place is cleaner than it’s probably ever been. And then, he turns on his Stone and calls Lup.


	8. My Lilt to the Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Seren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkedinserendipity) wanted more of this fic for her birthday, so I broke through my writer's block to write a few thousand words of this in one day. Happy Birthday! <3
> 
> Thank you to [Eden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/totillagarden) and [Tess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargirls) for such a quick beta, and also just for generally being amazing _nyoomers_.

* * *

 

> _Two years ago_

 

If Davenport had known just how satisfying Lucretia's look of pure astonishment would be, he probably would have passed the torch much sooner.

 

“Are you serious?” she says faintly. Davenport wonders if she might need to sit down.

 

“Aren't I always?”

 

“Not if you can help it!”

 

Davenport laughs. “I suppose that's fair. But in this case, yes, I'm definitely serious.”

 

This does not seem to comfort Lucretia at all.

 

“Davenport, the IPRE is your _life._ You built this guild from nothing! I can't--” Lucretia takes a steadying breath. “It's your legacy.”

 

Davenport nods. “Sure, of course it is. And I'll still be around when you need me for a job.”

 

“I mean, good,” she says. “I would want you to still be involved. I don't want to take away your voice.”

 

“Luce, you got this. With or without me. You're the best forger in Neverwinter, and besides, the team respects you. You'll be a great leader.”

 

Lucretia still doesn't look entirely sure, but his words seem to bolster her somewhat. Her shoulders straighten, as if to accommodate the burden he's just put on them.

 

“But what are you going to do?”

 

Davenport smiles. “I'm going sailing. And if I manage a bit of pirating along the way, well… I'll send you all some treasure.”

 

* * *

 

> _A year and a half ago_

 

It's a full moon on the night that Lucretia finally manages to gather all of the IPRE together in one place. She tries not to take it as a sign.

 

She'd expected it to be a struggle to get Davenport to attend this meeting - even when he remembers to check his Stone, he might be sailing halfway across the world, several days’ journey away. He seems to be enjoying his retirement more than even he thought he would.

 

She hadn't expected it to be so hard to get everyone else.

 

Business is booming for Magnus at the Hammer and Tongs, and while he's always ready to work a job if it means helping his family, it takes a lot more scheduling than it used to. She's still getting used to a Magnus who not only has responsibilities, but takes them seriously (most of the time). She's proud of him, and she knows Julia is too.

 

Merle somehow manages to be a beach bum in the middle of Neverwinter, and he spends at least half his time talking about how he wants to open a tiki bar, and the other half following Davenport on his sailing adventures. But he still has connections all throughout the city, and uses them to great effect… when he feels like it.

 

She's never quite sure what Barry and Lup are doing, but when she visits their apartment to invite them to this meeting personally, she's met with a series of loud banging sounds. They’re fully dressed when they answer the door, though, so Lucretia's afraid to ask what that was all about.

 

And Taako, well. Taako is Taako. He complains endlessly about the inconvenience, about the meeting cutting into one of his solo jobs. But he's the first one there, and his excitement shows in the way he flits from person to person, making forced-casual conversation with his closest friends.

 

It takes some doing, but she gets them all focused after a while, still smiling at their antics as she calls the meeting to order.

 

She's not smiling for long. After she tells them about the Relics, no one else is either.

 

“I know we have become… disillusioned,” she says. “I know some, or perhaps all of you have considered leaving this life behind. And I don't blame you. We've been doing this for a very long time. But this?” She gestures at the diagrams and notes scattered across the table in front of her. “These Relics? This is our chance to change things. To do good, to be better, to use our skills to prevent true evil from taking root in Neverwinter. And I'm asking you all to come with me on one last job.”

 

Lucretia makes eye contact with each of them, and she's proud of what she sees: confidence, resolve, determination, excitement.

 

“Whatever happens after that… we will always be family, with or without the masks.”

 

* * *

 

> _One year ago_

 

The Neverwinter militia headquarters is tall, imposing, and makes every inch of Lup's body itch with the desire to run as far away from it as possible.

 

Her and Taako have spent most of their lives outrunning the law. Now she’s about to become one of them. It goes against everything she knows, and she's frozen on the sidewalk in front of those big oak doors, knowing that one tiny slip-up could mean they'll close behind her forever. If her cover isn't perfect, if Lucretia missed even a single detail in erasing their criminal records, it might all come crashing down. And she won't be much use behind bars when it comes time to destroy the Relics.

 

Lup's startled out of her thoughts by Barry taking hold of her hand, forcing her attention onto him instead. He smiles, and a bit of her fear drains away.

 

“Are you ready, Lup?” he says, his voice calm and reassuring.

 

She doesn't hesitate.

 

“I'm ready to kick some criminal ass, babe, how ‘bout you?”

 

Barry's smile widens, and his eyes are soft are he draws her into a kiss. For a moment, she forgets to be afraid at all.

 

“Yeah. I'm ready.”

 

* * *

 

> _Ten months ago_

 

Taako doesn't bother knocking when he enters Lup and Barry's apartment. He almost regrets this when he sees Barry shirtless on the couch, but Merle's there too, and he really hopes this means he won't have to disown his sister for crimes against nature.

 

A second glance shows that Merle is there for healing purposes - the bruises all along Barry's side are slowly disappearing.

 

“Getting thrown through a window ain’t as cool as it looks, huh?” he says by way of greeting.

 

Barry flips him off, but then says, “She's in the kitchen.”

 

As soon as Taako rounds the corner into the kitchen and lays eyes on Lup, he launches into his prepared rant.

 

“Hey, goofus! You didn't tell me he was fucking hot!”

 

Lup doesn't look up from the cutting board where she's slicing up vegetables, but she definitely rolls her eyes. Taako can feel it in his bones.

 

“Because it wasn't relevant.”

 

“Lup, the fact that your detective boss looks like a Faerun’s Next Top Model contestant is _incredibly relevant_ and that you would suggest otherwise is--”

 

“Okay, yes,” she says, finally looking up at him. “He's very handsome and he's wasted on police work.”

 

“I can't believe you would keep this from your dearest older brother for _months--”_

 

Taako's cut off by a red pepper flying at his face, which he just barely catches. “If you're gonna bitch at me, do it while chopping,” Lup says, smirking.

 

Taako complies, but only because he wants all the dirt on this mysterious, handsome detective.

 

* * *

 

> _Nine months ago_

 

Angus thinks that if he rolls his eyes any harder, they might fall out of his head. And he kind of needs those to see, so instead he just sighs.

 

“Yes, I did my homework,” he says, mixing his first spoonful of sugar into his tea. He always takes two, because that’s the perfect amount.

 

“Lockpicking _and_ math?” Julia asks, snatching the sugar bowl from him and dumping about half of it into her own cup before handing it back. Angus grimaces.

 

“Yes, both of them.”

 

Magnus chuckles and leans across the table with his hand out. Angus does roll his eyes this time as he hands over the sugar bowl.

 

“He only did the math because I hid his thieves’ tools on a high shelf in the workshop,” Magnus says, grinning.

 

Julia punches him on the arm and says, “Magnus!” in a tone that tries to be admonishing, but which misses the mark by a mile when she laughs right after. Magnus makes a pained face and rubs his arm pointedly until Julia leans over and kisses the spot she punched. Angus just smiles at their antics.

 

“And what about your magic lesson with Taako, how did that go?” Julia asks, taking the sugar bowl out of Magnus’s hands and handing it back to him.

 

Angus grins. “It went great! I asked him to teach me Levitate so I could reach objects in high places.”

 

Magnus sputters around a mouthful of tea, and Julia laughs so hard that they almost don't hear the knock at the door - three sharp taps, a pause, and then two more.

 

Angus glances forlornly at his tea before bolting out of the room after Magnus. He supposes the sugar will have to wait.

 

* * *

 

> _Seven months ago_

 

Lup takes a deep breath, coughing as the lingering dust in the air makes its way into her lungs, and grabs for Barry’s hand. The lobby of the Goldcliff Trust is in ruins, and it’s possible she might have gone a bit overboard with making the damage look convincing this time.

 

“You alright, Bear?” she manages, startled by her own voice. It sounds like she’s been chewing on gravel.

 

Barry just nods, his forehead nudging against her stomach. Before he can try to formulate any more of a response, Kravitz’s voice rings out from Lup’s Stone of Farspeech, demanding their status. They share a glance, and Lup takes a few moments to focus before answering him. The rest of the crew only just took the elevator up to the vault, and they have to time this just right.

 

After she’s reassured Kravitz and gotten a fairly good idea of how far away the rest of the militia are - they should have _just_ enough time to pull this off - she returns her attention to Barry, who’s now pressing a hand to a shallow gash on his right side. Lup winces.

 

“God, Bear, I’m sorry…”

 

Barry manages a smile for her. “It’s all part of the plan, Lup.”

 

Lup shakes her head. “Still, though.”

 

“You can make it up to me later, then.” Barry gives her hand a squeeze and winks. Or at least she thinks he does; that could just be his eye twitching from all the dust.

 

“Babe, I’m starting to think you have a pain kink or something,” she says, and Barry laughs. It’s her favorite sound, and she clings to this small moment of normalcy as the elevator _dings_ to mark its return to the first floor, and this whole crazy plan unfolds around them.

 

* * *

 

> _Five months ago_

 

There’s silence around Lucretia’s living room as Merle finishes recounting his second encounter with John, and his insistence that his employers would gather the Relics at any cost. And then Taako says, “Wow, these boys are real thirsty for those Relics, huh?”

 

This earns him a few disapproving looks, but Magnus promptly bursts into laughter, effectively breaking up the tension that had taken over the room.

 

Lup grins. “Might as well just call them the Thirst.”

 

“Absolutely not,” Lucretia says instantly, attempting to cut off that line of thought before it can go any further. It’s a tactic that has never once worked, but she keeps trying anyway. “We are not calling them that.”

 

Merle, also chuckling, adopts his most spooky baritone voice and says, “The Thirst. It _hungers.”_

 

Davenport squints at him. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

 

“Oh, that’s even better!” Taako claps his hands together, sharing a smirking glance with Lup. “We’ll call them the Hunger.”

 

There’s another silence, which is broken this time by Barry, who has yet to say anything since Merle first started recounting his tale. He extricates himself from the sofa where he was squished in between Lup and Magnus and makes his way to the fantasy whiteboard where Lucretia has been keeping track of all the information they have about John and the Relics.

 

Without a word, he flicks the cap off a marker and writes “THE HUNGER” in bold letters across the top.

 

Lucretia groans as the twins and Magnus cheer. Barry glances over his shoulder and winks.

 

* * *

 

> _Four months ago_

 

It’s been several days, but the events of Kravitz’s date with the Mongoose still have his mind reeling with questions. The Relics, the Hunger, and the group of thieves trying to put a stop to them - it all sounds too fantastical to be real. But there’s no faking the level of sincerity he’d heard in the Mongoose’s voice, even for a master criminal. If there’s one thing Kravitz has always prided himself on in this line of work, it’s being able to read the intentions behind the things people do and say.

 

At the very least, the Mongoose believes wholeheartedly in a manipulative tale someone else told him. But at worst? At worst, he’s completely correct, and there’s so much more at stake here than Kravitz ever expected when he first stood on the side of a dirt road outside Phandalin, watching flames consume what was left of a trio of wagons.

 

Kravitz needs help. And he knows just the place to get it.

 

 _Istus’s Mysteries_ is a corner shop at the outer edges of the merchant quarter, far from the frenzy of the central avenue where Julia’s shop and his favorite music store reside. This doesn’t ever seem to hurt Istus’s business, though; when Kravitz enters the shop to the soft tinkling of the bells over the door, there’s a group of people all waiting for their turn in the tiny lobby.

 

He waits with them for a few minutes until eventually Istus herself appears, leading a customer out from behind the gauzy purple veil that separates the entrance from the back of her shop where, as she’s fond of saying, “all the magic happens.”

 

“Mind those trains, Tom!” she says cheerfully, ushering a slightly pale older gentleman toward the door. “Kravitz! How lovely to see you, dear, do come on back.”

 

There’s some disgruntled muttering from the other people waiting, and Kravitz follows her through the curtain sheepishly.

 

“I didn’t mind waiting,” he says as Istus takes her seat behind a small circular table.

 

“Nonsense! I couldn’t possibly keep my wife’s favorite detective waiting.” She gestures at the seat opposite her, and Kravitz sits down.

 

“The Captain doesn’t play favorites,” he says, smiling.

 

Istus winks at him. “Of course she doesn’t. Now, what can I do for you?”

 

“Well, it’s about a case, actually. About the missing Relics.”

 

“Ah, yes. Raven says you’ve all been hard at work on that.”

 

Kravitz nods. “Yes. The thing is…” He takes a steadying breath, wondering if this is going to sound as crazy to her as it does in his own head. “The Captain mentioned they were a sort of interest of yours? I was wondering if--if you could tell me more about them.”

 

“Oh, you mean the Unification?”

 

Kravitz freezes, staring at her in shock. Istus just smiles again.

 

 _“Seven in number, seven in name,”_ she quotes. Kravitz recognizes it as the passage that Roswell and Killian had found at the library. “It’s a popular bit of fancy, at least for people who find the Relics as fascinating as I do.”

 

“Is that all it is? Just a story?”

 

Istus considers him for a moment, linking her hands together and resting them on the table in front of her. The scrutiny feels almost like the first time he went in for an interview with the militia, when Captain Raven had looked at him like none of his secrets could ever be hidden from her. Kravitz now wonders which one of them got that particular skill from the other.

 

Finally, after apparently seeing something in him that she approves of, she says, “No, it’s not just a story. The threat of the united Relics is very real.”

 

“How do you know for sure? I thought no one had seen them all in one place in centuries.”

 

“That’s true.” Istus gestures around her at all the objects she uses in her work - crystal balls, tarot cards, numerous methods of divination lining every surface. “Raven was skeptical at first, too. She is far too practical, despite having known me for so long.” She says the last bit fondly, clearly lost in memory.

 

Kravitz once again finds himself stunned. “The Captain knows too?”

 

“Indeed. Although I believe she is still searching for proof on her own. You know how she is, I’m sure.”

 

“Uh--right.” Kravitz leans back heavily in his chair. A large part of him had been hoping that Istus would be able to prove the Mongoose wrong - that she would tell him it was all nothing but a legend. This is the alternative he’d been most afraid of, that Neverwinter - and possibly the world - is in much more danger than they’d ever thought, and that he’s going to have to rely on more than just his team to bring the Hunger down. That he’s going to have to ally himself with the thieves he should be hunting down.

 

Somehow, the latter doesn’t feel like as much of a hardship as it should.

 

“You are on the right path, my dear,” Istus says, a surety in her voice that belongs not to her, but to whatever forces she calls on in this room day after day. Her words are weighed down with a gravity that Kravitz can’t possibly ignore, and which he’s never heard before in all the times he’s ventured to her shop for help with a case. “The animals do not lie about this.”

 

* * *

 

> _Three months ago_

 

Lup watches as Taako seals his latest note carefully, the words she’s been turning over in her head for weeks sitting on the tip of her tongue, itching to escape. When Taako holds the note out to her with a confident flourish, she reaches out a hand to take it, and pauses just before she gets there.

 

Taako gives her an impatient look. “What?”

 

Lup sighs, and with that, the words are released.

 

“Taako, you know I love you more than life itself, but… please. I’m asking you to be careful.”

 

Taako scoffs. “I’m always careful. Ain’t like I’m signing ‘em with my name.”

 

Lup shakes her head. She takes the note from him reluctantly and puts it in her bag, but she doesn’t move from her seat. If she stays much longer she’ll be late for work, but now that she’s started this there’s no way she’s going to stop.

 

“That’s not what I mean,” she says, reaching across the kitchen table to place her hand over his. “Look, Kravitz is… he’s a really good guy, and we’re kinda ruining his whole life right now? And I know you can handle yourself, but I’d hate to see you get--get dragged down with him, you know?”

 

Taako stares at her like she’s grown a second head, quickly followed by a third one for added strangeness.

 

“Like I said, just. Be careful. With both his heart and yours.”

 

Taako’s mouth opens and closes a few times in disbelief, but there’s a knowing look in his eyes that tells Lup he’s probably thought about this before, at least a little. That he realizes perfectly well the kind of risk he’s taking.

 

Finally, he says, “Yeah, so, who are you and how’d you Polymorph into my sister?”

 

Lup rolls her eyes exaggeratedly. “Come on, Taako--”

 

“What’s your favorite color?” He asks questions rapid fire, as if that would somehow trick an imposter into confessing. “What food do you only eat when you’re hungover? When’s your birthday?”

 

“Red, fantasy onion rings, and the _same as yours,_ doofus, honestly, that was a terrible question.”

 

There’s a flicker around Taako’s lips that might be a grin, but all he says is, “Great, you passed the test. Now get out of here before your boss fires you.”

 

Lup squeezes his hand briefly, a final reminder of her concerns, before standing up and making her way to the door, throwing her final comment over her shoulder as she goes.

 

“I don’t have to worry about being late, he’s got a big gay crush on my criminal brother.”

 

The sound of what might be a shoe slamming against the door she just closed is satisfying, even if it doesn’t entirely settle the lingering uneasiness she feels with every step she takes closer to the militia headquarters that day.

 

* * *

 

> _Three years ago_

 

Magnus holds the lantern up over his head as he and Carey sneak further down into the darkness, following the spiraling path of rough stone stairs down as far as they will go. There’s a rumor, an old and probably false one, that there’s a veritable horde of treasure waiting under this abandoned and decaying temple, and the two of them had jumped at the chance to go on an exploration mission.

 

 _Abandoned_ means there’s no one there to get in the way; _abandoned_ means there’s no possibility for casualties, and no chance that anyone will care about what might go missing. Magnus didn’t used to care about that sort of thing, but then again, things change.

 

And anyway, he’s not about to turn down a chance at some treasure, even if it’s the slimmest chance he’s ever heard of.

 

“Stop shining that thing in my eyes,” Carey says, hopping down the stairs faster than Magnus can keep up.

 

“Only one of us here can see in the dark, and it’s not me, so deal with it.” Magnus flashes the beam of light in her direction briefly. Carey swings her head around to stick her tongue out at him.

 

“Get good, Burnsides.”

 

Magnus laughs and is about to retort when the stairs suddenly come to an end. His lantern doesn’t reveal much, but there’s a feeling itching across the back of his neck that tells him this space is _big._ It’s much colder down here than it had been on the surface, and the chill seems to roll out into a vague expanse of nothingness.

 

There’s no telling what might be waiting for them in the dark.

 

“See anything spooky, lizard girl?”

 

“Don’t call me that,” Carey says automatically, scanning the darkness thoroughly. “And no. Nothing but this.”

 

Before Magnus can ask, Carey takes a few steps towards the wall, her footsteps echoing across the vast space despite how carefully she makes her way across the stone floor. She opens her mouth and breathes a small stream of fire across some kind of pedestal, and suddenly the room is filled with light as the flames catch and spread down a shallow channel, criss-crossing into similar channels up and down the room.

 

Magnus blinks against the sudden brightness and says, “Huh. Neat,” followed quickly by, “Holy shit.”

 

The underground chamber is huge, just as Magnus expected, and it’s _filled_ with treasure. Gold is piled high in all four corners, and the rows of flame illuminate chests and cabinets displaying even more precious things: gems of all colors, artifacts that he’s never seen and probably never heard of either, antique swords and shields that no doubt belong in the Neverwinter Historical Society. For a few moments, all they can do is stand there at the base of the stairs in disbelief. To think, all this had just been sitting here for who knows how long, and they’re the ones to find it all.

 

“Holy shit,” Carey echoes belatedly, her normally gruff voice sounding almost weak with shock.

 

“Yeah,” Magnus whispers. “This is…”

 

“A lot, yeah. This is a lot.”

 

“Carey, we could--”

 

“--change things. Change everything--”

 

“--make a huge difference.”

 

They look at each other then, stunned. And then, as one, they grin widely.

 

It takes ages to sort it all out. They work extremely carefully at first, wary of old traps and curses, but it soon becomes clear that for all this time, there was nothing guarding this trove except for the rotten wooden doors of the temple above them. Magnus can’t even begin to fathom how they got so lucky. It almost feels like fate, in a way, like this gift had been waiting here for them, specifically, and that’s why no one else had ever been able to find it.

 

Magnus shakes his head at his own musings. That would be ridiculous. After all the things he’s done, he’s the last person who deserves something like this. Luck is just luck.

 

“Hey, Mags?” Carey calls over to him from where she’d been shoveling gold into a bag. She’s stopped now, kneeling on the floor and fiddling with the drawstring keeping the bag closed. “This is crazy, right?”

 

“Oh, for sure, yeah. Gods, Jules is gonna _flip.”_

 

“Yeah, I’m just… thinking.” She waits for Magnus to stop what he’s doing and really look at her before she continues. “I mean, this is it, isn’t it? The windfall we were waiting for?”

 

Magnus nods. “You’re gonna do it, then? Go straight?”

 

“Hardly,” Carey jokes, and Magnus laughs. “But… yeah? This feels like the best chance I’ve ever had to get out of this life for good. Find some--some honest work for a change.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Magnus’s thoughts stray to Julia, as they so often do - to the workshop she wants to build with him, and the home attached to it; to the ring he wants to buy her, if she’ll accept it; to the future he dreams of where he can finally, finally stop running. He picks up an ornate silver cup from the shelf he was busily clearing off. If Taako were here, he’d probably call it something fancy like a _chalice._

 

It doesn’t look like much, really. He should toss it into the pile they’ve been making in the center of the room of all the objects they don’t think they can sell for much. But something in his gut is telling him not to do that, to instead put it in his bag and take it home. As he does so, he tells himself that Julia will probably think it’s cool, and that’s the only reason he takes it.

 

“Yeah,” he says again, looking back up at Carey. “I think this might be our big shot, Carey.”

 

* * *

 

> _Now_

 

Kravitz is sorely tempted to kick his chair over instead of sit in it, but he opts for the latter anyway, calling on all the restraint he still possesses.

 

He’s pissed.

 

He throws himself into his paperwork even though the sun is close to setting outside. The office is empty but for him, and he works by candlelight, finishing case files and reports, transcribing witness accounts, anything that’s not related to the Relics case. Anything that will takes his mind off the Mongoose’s face - off _Taako’s_ face, the face he shares with his sister, and _gods,_ they played him for a fucking _fool--_

 

Kravitz huffs, throwing his pen down and stretching out his aching hand. He shouldn’t be here, surrounded by all these reminders. He shouldn’t be here, where Barry’s and Lup’s desks stand out like beacons in the otherwise dark room, taunting him with their emptiness.

 

He shouldn’t be here, but he’s too distracted to go home.

 

He’s startled out of his swirling thoughts by the office door opening. Captain Raven steps through before he even has time to wonder who else would be here at this time of night, and makes her way straight to him.

 

“Go home, Kravitz,” she says immediately.

 

“How did you--”

 

“Istus.”

 

“Ah.” Kravitz shifts awkwardly in his seat. “I will, Captain. I just wanted to finish up some of these old cases…”

 

“Bullshit.”

 

Kravitz blinks up at her, startled and most definitely out of his comfort zone. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen the Captain like this before - restless, cursing, anything less than calm. Finally, she grabs the chair from behind Killian’s desk and pulls it over to sit opposite Kravitz.

 

“I haven’t been entirely honest with you, Kravitz,” she says. “But I think we’re both guilty of that.”

 

Kravitz nods stiffly, unwilling to lie anymore.

 

“I knew more about the Relics than I let on,” the Captain continues. “And you, I’m assuming, are the one who ordered our militia detachment in Mithral Hall to have the Staff moved to the Mayor’s house, yes?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I feel like I already know the answer to this question, but I’m going to ask it anyway: Are you in league with Barry and Lup and the rest of this Bureau of Balance guild?”

 

It’s on the tip of Kravitz’s tongue to say no, he’s not one of them, that the very idea of it makes his skin crawl. But if he’s resigning himself to finally, finally telling his Captain the truth, then that’s not really an option.

 

“I had no idea Barry and Lup were the ones who had infiltrated the militia,” he says instead, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

 

“But you helped the Mongoose find the Relics?” Kravitz nods again. Captain Raven considers him, her eyes narrowed, and asks, “Why?”

 

“Because they’re trying to stop something worse from happening.”

 

Kravitz repeats everything Taako told him about the Relics and about the Hunger, about John Esuriens and the Unification, about his visit to Istus and her confirmation. The Captain smiles ruefully at that.

 

“She’s told me similar things,” she says. “Which is why I’m inclined to believe you when you say you didn’t know about Barry and Lup. I’m not so inclined to believe _them,_ however.”

 

Kravitz stares down at his desk for a long moment. The edge of one of Taako’s notes is sticking out beneath a stack of case files, the curling loops of a few letters clearly visible. The anger still simmers beneath the surface of his thoughts, but if he’s not lying to the Captain, then he’s not lying to himself either. The betrayal still sinks heavy in his gut every time he thinks of it, every time he imagines Taako’s face and how excited he’d been to kiss him, right up until the second he registered the too-familiar features. But he knows, with a certainty he couldn’t explain even if his Captain demanded it, that what they’re doing is right.

 

“Captain?” he says finally, and she nods to indicate that he should continue. “I want to make a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a playlist for this fic way back when I first started writing it months ago, and I figured this chapter was a good time to share it with more people than just my betas. You can listen to it on [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/fearlessfreefall/playlist/5DgkAhBiabCrxbFZDzgaHg?si=PN0h0U2pTaaTA8B0IadXmQ)!

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me about TAZ on [tumblr](http://malevolentmango.tumblr.com)!


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